THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 


BY 

JOHN    GALSWORTHY 


•     •     • 


*t  is  an  unweeded  garden  " 

HamUt 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1920 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


:  .•, 


P/?60/3 


TO 

W.  H.  HUDSON 

For  love  of  **  Green  Mansions  ** 
and  all  his  other  books 


421754 


CONTENTS 


PARTI 

CHAPTER 

I.      A  PARTY  AT  WORSTED  SKEYNES 

•             • 

PACK 

3 

II. 

THE  COVERT  SHOOT 

•  '           • 

20 

III. 

THE  BLISSFUL  HOUR 

. 

29 

IV. 

THE  HAPPY  HUNTING-GROUND 

• 

35 

V. 

MRS.  PENDYCE's  DANCE  . 

. 

43 

VI. 

INFLUENCE    OF    THE    REVEREND 

hussell 

BARTER        .... 

. 

49 

VII. 

SABBATH  AT  WORSTED  SKEYNES 

. 

55 

VIII. 

GREGORY  VIGIL  PROPOSES 

. 

6«; 

IX. 

MR.  PARAMOR  DISPOSES  . 

. 

fS 

X. 

AT  BLAFARd's 

. 

92 

PART  II 

I.       GREGORY  REOPENS  THE  CAMPAIGN    .              .  98 
II.      CONTINUED  INFLUENCE  OF  THE  REVEREND 

HUSSELL  BARTER              ....  112 

III.  THE  SINISTER  NIGHT         .              .             .             .  I24 

IV.  MR.  PENDYCE's  head            .             .                     .  I3C 

vii 


viii  Contents 

CHAPTER  rABM 

V.  RECTOR  AND  SQUIRE         ....  I43 

VI.  THE  PARK      ......  154 

VII.  DOUBTFUL  POSITION  AT  WORSTED  SKEYNES  162 

VIII.  COUNCIL  AT  WORSTED  SKEYNES          .  •  I?! 

IX.  DEFINITION  OP  "PENDYCITIS"             .  .  183 

X.  GEORGE  GOES  FOR  THE  GLOVES           .  .  189 

XI.  MR.  BARTER  TAKES  A  WALK     .             .  .  199 

XII.  THE  SQUIRE  MAKES  UP  HIS  MIND        .  .  209 

PART  III 

I.  MRS.  PENDYCE*S  ODYSSEY           .            .  .  219 

II.  THE  SON  AND  THE  MOTHER        .             .  .  23O 

ill.  MRS.  BELLEW  SQUARES  HER  ACCOUNTS  .  244 

IV.  MRS.  PENDYCE's  INSPIRATION  .            .  .  248 

V.  THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON       .             .  .  259 

VI.  GREGORY  LOOKS  AT  THE  SKY   .             .  .  268 

VII.  TOUR  WITH  THE  SPANIEL  JOHN            .  .  276 

VIII.  ACUTE  ATTACK  OP  "PENDYCITIS*'      .  .  292 

IX.  BELLEW  BOWS  TO  A  LADY          .            .  .  299 


THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 


THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 

PART  I 


CHAPTER  I 

A    PARTY    AT    WORSTED    SKEYNES 

'T^HE  year  was  1891,  the  month  October,  the  day 
*  Monday.  In  the  dark  outside  the  railway- 
station  at  Worsted  Skeynes  Mr.  Horace  Pendyce's 
omnibus,  his  brougham,  his  luggage- cart,  monopolised 
space.  The  face  of  Mr.  Horace  Pendyce's  coachman 
monopolised  the  light  of  the  solitary  station  lantern. 
Rosy-gilled,  with  fat  close- clipped  grey  whiskers  and 
inscrutably  pursed  lips,  it  presided  high  up  in  the 
easterly  air  like  an  emblem  of  the  feudal  system. 
On  the  platform  within,  Mr.  Horace  Pendyce's  first 
footman  and  second  groom  in  long  livery  coats  with 
silver  buttons,  their  appearance  slightly  relieved 
by  the  rakish  cock  of  their  top-hats,  awaited  the 
arrival  of  the  six-fifteen. 

The  first  footman  took  from  his  pocket  a  half- 
sheet  of  stamped  and  crested  note-paper  covered 
with  Mr.  Horace  Pendyce's  small  and  precise  cali- 
graphy;  he  read  from  it  in  a  nasal,  derisive  voice: 
"Hon.  Geoff,  and  Mrs.  Winlow,  blue  room  and 
dress;  maid,  small  drab.  Mr.  George,  white  room. 
Mrs.  Jaspar  Bellew,  gold.  The  Captain,  red.  General 
Pendyce,  pink  room;  valet,  back  attic;  that's  the 
lot." 

1^ 


4        ;    ;    The  Cpun^^    House 

The  groom,  a  red- cheeked  youth,  paid  no  attention. 

**If  this  here  Ambler  of  Mr.  George's  wins  on 
Wednesday,'*  he  said,  "it's  as  good  as  five  pounds 
in  my  pocket.     Who  does  for  Mr.  George?" 

"James,  of  course." 

The  groom  whistled: 

"I  *11  try  an*  get  his  loadin'  to-morrow.  Are  you 
on,  Tom?" 

The    footman    answered : 

"Here's  another  over  the  page.  Green  room,  right 
wing.  That  Foxleigh,  he  's  no  good.  *  Take  all  you 
can  and  give  nothing'  sort!  But  can't  he  shoot 
just!     That 's  why  they  ask  him!" 

From  behind  a  screen  of  dark  trees  the  train 
ran  in. 

Down  the  platform  came  the  first  passengers, 
two  cattle-men  with  long  sticks,  slouching  by  in 
their  frieze  coats,  diffusing  an  odour  of  beast  and 
black  tobacco;  then  a  couple,  and  single  figures, 
keeping  as  far  apart  as  possible,  the  guests  of  Mr. 
Horace  Pendyce.  Slowly  they  came  out  one  by 
one  into  the  loom  of  the  carriages,  and  stood  with 
their  eyes  fixed  carefully  before  them,  as  though 
afraid  they  might  recognise  each  other.  A  tall  man 
in  a  fur  coat,  whose  tall  wife  carried  a  small  bag  of 
silver  and  shagreen,  spoke  to  the  coachman: 

"How  are  you,  Benson?  Mr.  George  says  Captain 
Pendyce  told  him  he  would  n't  be  down  till  the 
nine- thirty.     I  suppose  we'd  better " 

Like  a  breeze  tuning  through  the  frigid  silence  of 
a  fog,  a  high,  clear  voice  was  heard: 

"Oh!  thanks.     I'll  go  up  in  the  brougham." 

Followed  by  the  first  footman  carrying  her  wraps, 
and  muffled  in  a  white  veil,  through  which  the  Hon. 


A  Party  at  Worsted  Skeynes         5 

Geoffrey  Winlow's  leisurely  gaze  caught  the  gleam 
of  eyes,  a  lady  stepped  forward,  and  with  a  backward 
glance  vanished  into  the  brougham.  Her  head  ap- 
peared again  behind  the  swathe  of  gauze. 

** There's  plenty  of  room,  George." 

George  Pendyce  walked  quickly  forward  and  dis- 
appeared beside  her.  There  was  a  crunch  of  wheels; 
the   brougham  rolled  away. 

The  Hon.  Geoffrey  Winlow  raised  his  face  again. 

"Who  was  that,  Benson?" 

The  coachman  leaned  over  confidentially,  holding 
his  podgy  white-gloved  hand  outspread  on  a  level 
with  the  Hon.  Geoffrey's  hat. 

*'Mrs.  Jaspar  Bellew,  sir.  Captain  Bellew's  lady, 
of  the  Firs." 

**But  I  thought  they  weren't " 

"No,  sir;  they're  not,  sir." 

"Ah!" 

A  thin,  rarified  voice  was  heard  from  the  door  .of 
the  omnibus. 

"Now.  Geoff!" 

The  Hon.  Geoffrey  Winlow  followed  his  wife,  Mr. 
Foxleigh,  and  General  Pendyce  into  the  omnibus, 
and  again  Mrs.  Winlow's  voice  was  heard. 

"Oh,  do  you  mind  my  maid?     Get  in,  Tookson!" 

Mr.  Horace  Pendyce's  mansion,  white  and  long 
and  low,  standing  well  within  its  acres,  had  come 
into  the  possession  of  his  great-great-great-grand- 
father through  an  alliance  with  the  last  of  the 
Worsteds.  Originally  a  fine  property  let  in  smallish 
holdings  to  tenants  who,  having  no  attention  be- 
stowed on  them,  did  very  well  and  paid  excellent 
rents,  it  was  now  farmed  on  model  lines  at  a  slight 
loss.     At    stated    intervals,  Mr.    Pendyce    imported 


6  The  Country  House 

a  new  kind  of  cow,  or  partridge,  and  built  a  wing 
to  the  schools.  His  income  was  fortunately  inde- 
pendent of  this  estate.  He  was  in  complete  accord 
with  the  Rector  and  the  sanitary  authorities,  and 
not  infrequently  complained  that  his  tenants  did 
not  stay  on  the  land.  His  wife  was  a  Totteridge, 
and  his  coverts  admirable.  He  had  been,  needless 
to  say,  an  eldest  son.  It  was  his  individual  con- 
viction that  individualism  had  ruined  England,  and 
he  had  set  himself  deliberately  to  eradicate  this  vice 
from  the  character  of  his  tenants.  \  By  substituting 
for  their  individualism  his  own  tastes,  plans,  and 
sentiments, ^  one  might  almost  say  his  own  individ- 
ualism, and  losing  money  thereby,  he  had  gone  far 
to  demonstrate  his  pet  theory  that  the  higher  the 
individualism  the  more  sterile  the  life  of  the  com- 
munity. If,  however,  the  matter  was  thus  put  to 
him,  he  grew  both  garrulous  and  angry,  for  he  con- 
sidered himself  not  an  individualist,  but  what  he 
called  a  "Tory  Communist.'*  In  connection  with 
his  agricultural  interests  he  was  naturally  a  Fair 
Trader ;  a  tax  on  corn,  he  knew,  would  make 
all  the  difference  in  the  world  to  the  prosperity  of 
England.  As  he  often  said:  "A  tax  of  three  or  four 
shillings  on  corn,  and  I  should  be  farming  my  estate 
at  a  profit." 

Mr.  Pendyce  had  other  peculiarities,  in  which  he 
was  not  too  individual.  He  was  averse  to  any  change 
in  the  existing  order  of  things,  made  lists  of  every- 
thing, and  was  never  really  so  happy  as  when  talk- 
ing of  himself  or  his  estate.  He  had  a  black  spaniel 
dog  called  John,  with  a  long  nose  and  longer  ears, 
whom  he  had  bred  himself  till  the  creature  was  not 
happy  out  of  his  sight. 


A  Party  at  Worsted  Skeynes  7 

In  appearance  Mr.  Pendyce  was  rather  of  the  old 
school,  upright  and  active,  with  thin  side- whiskers, 
to  which,  however,  for  some  years  past  he  had  added 
moustaches  which  drooped  and  were  now  grizzled. 
He  wore  large  cravats  and  square- tailed  coats.  He 
did  not  smoke. 

At  the  head  of  his  dining- table  loaded  with  flowers 
and  plate,  he  sat  between  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Winlow 
and  Mrs.  Jaspar  Bellew,  nor  could  he  have  desired 
more  striking  and  contrasted  supporters.  Equally 
tall,  full- figured,  and  comely.  Nature  had  fixed 
between  these  two  women  a  gulf  which  Mr.  Pendyce, 
a  man  of  spare  figure,  tried  in  vain  to  fill.  The 
composure  peculiar  to  the  ashen  type  of  the  British 
aristocracy  wintered  permanently  on  Mrs.  Winlow's 
features,  like  the  smile  of  a  frosty  day.  Expres- 
sionless to  a  degree,  they  at  once  convinced  the 
spectator  that  she  was  a  woman  of  the  best  breed- 
ing. Had  an  expression  ever  arisen  upon  these 
features  it  is  impossible  to  say  what  might  have 
been  the  consequences.  She  had  followed  her 
nurse's  adjuration:  "Lor!  Miss  Truda,  never  you 
make  a  face!  You  might  grow  so!"  Never  since 
that  day  had  Gertrude  Winlow,  an  Honourable  in 
her  own  right  and  in  that  of  her  husband — ^made  a 
face,  not  even,  it  is  believed,  when  her  son  was  bom. 
And  then  to  find  on  the  other  side  of  Mr.  Pendyce 
that  puzzling  Mrs.  Bellew  with  the  green-grey  eyes, 
at  which  the  best  people  of  her  own  sex  looked  with 
instinctive  disapproval!  A  woman  in  her  position 
should  avoid  anything  conspicuous,  and  Nature  had 
given  her  a  too  striking  appearance.  People  said 
that  when,  the  year  before  last,  she  had  separated 
from  Captain  Bellew  and  left  the  Firs,  it  was  simply 


3  The  Country  House 

because  they  were  tired  of  one  another.  They  said, 
too,  that  it  looked  as  if  she  were  encouraging  the 
attentions  of  George,  Mr.  Pendyce's  eldest  son. 

Lady  Maiden  had  remarked  to  Mrs.  Winlow  in  the 
drawing-room  before  dinner: 

"What  is  it  about  that  Mrs.  Bellew?  /  never 
liked  her.  A  woman  situated  as  she  is  ought  to  be 
more  careful.  I  don't  understand  her  being  asked 
here  at  all,  with  her  husband  still  at  the  Firs,  only 
just  over  the  way.  Besides,  she  's  very  hard  up;  she 
does  n't  even  attempt  to  disguise  it.  I  call  her  almost 
an  adventuress." 

Mrs.  Winlow  had  answered : 

"But  she  's  some  sort  of  cousin  to  Mrs.  Pendyce. 
The  Pendyces  are  related  to  everybody!  It's  so  bor- 
ing.    One  never  knows " 

Lady  Maiden  replied: 

"Did  you  know  her  when  she  was  living  down 
here?  I  dislike  those  hard-riding  women.  She  and 
her  husband  were  perfectly  reckless.  One  heard  of 
nothing  else  but  what  she  had  jumped  and  how  she 
had  jumped  it;  and  she  bets  and  goes  racing.  If 
George  Pendyce  is  not  in  love  with  her,  I'm  very 
much  mistaken.  He  's  been  seeing  far  too  much  of 
her  in  town.  She  's  one  of  those  women  that  men 
are  always  hanging  about!" 

At  the  head  of  his  dinner-table,  where  before  each 
guest  was  placed  a  menu  carefully  written  in  his 
eldest  daughter's  handwriting,  Horace  Pendyce  supped 
his  soup. 

"This  soup,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Bellew,  "reminds 
me  of  your  dear  old  father;  he  was  extraordinarily 
fond  of  it.  I  had  a  great  respect  for  your  father — a 
wonderful  man !     I  always  said  he  was  the  most 


A  Party  at  Worsted  Skeynes         9 

determined  man  I  'd  met  since  my  own  dear  father, 
and  he  was  the  most  obstinate  man  in  the  three 
kingdoms!" 

He  frequently  made  use  of  the  expression  "in 
the  three  kingdoms,"  which  sometimes  preceded  a 
statement  that  his  grandmother  was  descended  from 
Richard  III.,  while  his  grandfather  came  down  from 
( he  Cornish  giants,  one  of  whom — he  would  say  with 
a  disparaging  smile — ^had  once  thrown  a  cow  over  a 
nail. 

"Your  father  was  too  much  of  an  individualist, 
Mrs.  Bellew.  I  have  a  lot  of  experience  of  individ- 
ualism in  the  management  of  my  estate,  and  I  find 
that  an  individualist  is  never  contented.  My  ten- 
ants have  everything  they  want,  but  it 's  impossible 
to  satisfy  them.  There  's  a  fellow  called  Peacock, 
now  a  most,  pig-headed,  narrow-minded  chap.  I  don't 
give  in  to  him,  of  course.  If  he  had  his  way  he  'd 
go  back  to  the  old  days,  farm  the  land  in  his  own 
fashion.  He  wants  to  buy  it  from  me.  Old  vicious 
system  of  yeoman  farming.  Says  his  grandfather 
had  it.  He  's  that  sort  of  man.  I  hate  individualism, 
it 's  ruining  England.  You  won't  find  better  cottages, 
or  better  farm  buildings  anywhere  than  on  my  estate. 
I  go  in  for  centralisation.  I  dare  say  you  know  what 
I  call  myself,  a  ''Tory  Communist."  To  my  mind, 
that  's  the  party  of  the  future.  Now,  your  father's 
motto  was:  "Every  man  for  himself!"  On  the  land 
that  would  never  do,  landlord  and  tenant  must  work 
together.  You  '11  come  over  to  Newmarket  with 
us  on  Wednesday?  George  has  a  very  fine  horse 
running  in  the  Rutlandshire — a  very  fine  horse. 
He  does  n't  bet,  I  'm  glad  to  say.  If  there  's  one 
thing  I  hate  more  than  another,  it 's  gambUng!" 


lo  The  Country  House 

Mrs.  Bellew  gave  him  a  sidelong  glance,  and  a 
little  ironical  smile  peeped  out  on  her  full  red  lips. 
But  Mr.  Pendyce  had  been  called  away  to  his  soup. 
When  he  was  r^^ady  to  resume  the  conversation  she 
was  talking  to  his  son,  and  the  Squire,  frowning, 
turned  to  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Winlow.  Her  attention 
was  automatic,  complete,  monosyllabic;  she  did 
not  appear  to  fatigue  herself  by  an  over- sympathetic 
comprehension,  nor  was  she  subservient.  Mr.  Pen- 
dyce found  her  a  competent  listener. 

"The  country  is  changing,"  he  said,  ''changing 
every  day.  Country  houses  are  not  what  they 
were.  A  great  responsibility  rests  on  us  landlords. 
If  we  go,  the  whole  thing  goes. " 

What  indeed  could  be  more  delightful  than  this 
country-house  life  of  Mr.  Pendyce;  its  perfect  clean- 
liness, its  busy  leisure,  its  combination  of  fresh  air 
and  scented  v^armth,  its  complete  intellectual  repose, 
its  essential  and  professional  aloofness  from  suffering 
of  any  kind — ^and  its  soup — emblematically  and 
above  all,  its  soup — ^made  from  the  rich  remains 
of  pampered  beasts. 

Mr.  Pendyce  thought  this  lif€:'^;ii!e  one  right  life; 
those  who  lived  it  the  only  right  people.  He  con- 
sidered it  a  duty  to  live  this  life,  with  its  simple, 
healthy,  yet  luxurious  curriculum,  surrounded  by 
creatures  bred  for  his  own  devouring,  surrounded,  as 
it  were  by  a  sea  of  soup !  And  that  such  people  should 
go  on  existing  in  millions  in  the  towns,  preying  on 
each  other,  and  getting  continually  out  of  work, 
with  all  those  other  depressing  concomitants  of  an 
awkward  state,  distressed  him.  While  suburban 
life,  that  living  in  little  rows  of  slate- roofed  houses 
so  lamentably  similar  that  no  man  of  individual  taste 


A  Party  at  Worsted  Skeynes        1 1 

could  bear  to  see  them,  he  much  disliked.  Yet,  in 
spite  of  his  strong  prejudice  in  favour  of  country- 
house  life,  he  was  not  a  rich  man,  his  income  barely 
exceeding  ten  thousand  a  year. 

The  first  shooting-party  of  the  season,  devoted 
to  spinneys  and  the  outlying  coverts,  had  been  as 
usual  made  to  synchronise  with  the  last  Newmarket 
Meeting,  for  Newmarket  was  within  an  uncomfortable 
distance  of  Worsted  Skeynes,  and  though  Mr.  Pen- 
dyce  had  a  horror  of  gaming,  he  liked  to  figure  there 
End  pass  for  a  man  interested  in  sport  for  sport's 
sake,  and  he  was  really  rather  proud  of  the  fact  that 
his  son  had  picked  up  so  good  a  horse  as  The  Ambler 
promised  to  be,  for  so  little  money,  and  was  racing 
him  for  pure  sport. 

The  guests  had  been  carefully  chosen.  On  Mrs. 
Winlow's  right  was  Thomas  Brandwhite  (of  Brown 
&  Brandwhite),  who  had  a  position  in  the  financial 
world  which  could  not  'well  be  ignored,  two  places 
in  the  country,  and  a  yacht.  His  long  lined  face, 
with  very  heavy  moustaches,  wore  habitually  a 
peevish  look.  He  had  retired  from  his  firm  and  now 
only  sat  on  the  F  rds  of  several  companies.  Next 
to  him  was  Mrs.  Hussell  Barter,  with  that  touching 
look  to  be  seen  on  the  faces  of  many  English  ladies, 
that  look  of  women  who  are  always  doing  their  duty, 
their  rather  painful  duty;  whose  eyes,  above  cheeks 
creased  and  withered,  once  rose-leaf  hued',  now  over- 
coloured  by  strong  weather,  are  starry  and  anxious, 
whose  speech  is  simple,  sympathetic,  direct,  a  little 
shy,  a  little  hopeless,  yet  always  hopeful,  who  are 
ever  surrounded  by  children,  invalids,  old  people,  all 
looking  to  them  for  support,  who  have  never  known 
the  luxury  of  breaking  down.     Of  these  was  Mrs, 


12  The  Country  House 

Hi^issell  Barter,  the  wife  ot  the  Reverend  Hussell 
Barter  who  would  shoot  to-morrow  but  would  not 
attend  the  race-meeting  on  the  Wednesday.  On 
her  other  hand  was  Gilbert  Foxleigh,  a  lean- flanked 
man  with  a  long,  narrow  head,  strong  white  teeth, 
and  hollow,  thirsting  eyes.  He  came  of  a  county 
family  of  Foxleighs,  and  was  one  of  six  brothers, 
invaluable  to  the  owners  of  coverts  or  young,  half- 
broken  horses,  in  days  when,  as  a  Foxleigh  would 
put  it,  "hardly  a  Johnny  of  the  lot  could  shoot  or 
ride  for  nuts."  There  was  no  species  of  beast,  bird, 
or  fish,  that  he  could  not  and  did  not  destroy  with 
equal  skill  and  enjoyment.  The  only  thing  against 
him  was  his  income,  which  was  very  small.  He 
had  taken  in  Mrs.  Brandwhite,  to  whom,  however,  he 
talked  but  little  leaving  her  to  General  Pendyce,  her 
neighbour  on  the  other  side.  Had  he  been  born 
a  year  before  his  brother  instead  of  a  year 
after,  Charles  Pendyce  would  naturally  have  owned 
Worsted  Skeynes,  and  Horace  would  have  gone 
into  the  Army  instead.  As  it  was,  having  almost 
imperceptibly  become  a  Major-General  he  had  re- 
tired, taking  with  him  his  pension.  The  third 
brother,  had  he  chosen  to  be  born,  would  have 
gone  into  the  Church,  where  a  living  awaited  him; 
he  had  elected  otherwise,  and  the  living  had  passed 
perforce  to  a  collateral  branch.  Between  Horace 
and  Charles,  seen  from  behind,  it  was  difficult  to  dis- 
tinguish. Both  were  spare,  both  erect,  with  the 
least  inclination  to  bottle  shoulders,  but  Charles 
Pendyce  brushed  his  hair,  both  before  and  behind^ 
away  from  a  central  parting,  and  about  the  back  of 
his  still  active  knees  there  was  a  look  of  feebleness. 
Seen    from    the  front  they  could  readily  be  differ- 


A  Party  at  Worsted  Skeynes         13 

entiated,  for  the  General's  whiskers  broadened  down 
his  cheeks  till  they  reached  his  moustaches,  and 
there  was  in  his  face  and  manner  a  sort  of  formal, 
though  discontented,  effacement,  as  of  an  individ- 
ualist who  has  all  his  life  been  part  of  a  system,  from 
which  he  has  issued  at  last,  unconscious  indeed  of 
his  loss,  but  with  a  vague  sense  of  injury.  He  had 
never  married,  feeHng  it  to  be  comparatively  useless, 
owing  to  Horace  having  gained  that  year  on  him  at 
the  start,  and  he  lived  with  a  valet  close  to  his  club 
in  Pall  Mall. 

In  Lady  Maiden,  whom  he  had  taken  in  to  dinner, 
Worsted  Skeynes  entertained  a  good  woman  and  a 
personality,  whose  teas  to  working-men  in  the  Lon- 
don season  were  famous.  No  working-man  who 
had  attended  them  had  ever  gone  away  without  a 
wholesome  respect  for  his  hostess.  She  was  indeed 
a  woman  who  permitted  no  liberties  to  be  taken 
with  her  in  any  walk  of  life.  The  daughter  of  a 
Rural  Dean,  she  appeared  at  her  best  when  seated, 
having  rather  short  legs.  Her  face  was  well- coloured, 
her  mouth  firm  and  rather  wide,  her  nose  well- shaped, 
her  hair  dark.  She  spoke  in  a  decided  voice,  and 
did  not  mince  her  words.  It  was  to  her  that  her 
husband,  Sir  James,  owed  his  reactionary  principles 
on  the  subject  of  woman. 

Round  the  corner  at  the  end  of  the  table  the  Hon. 
Geoffrey  Winlow  was  telling  his  hostess  of  the  Balkan 
provinces,  from  a  tour  in  which  he  had  just  returned. 
His  face,  of  the  Norman  type,  with  regular,  handsome 
features,  had  a  leisurely  and  capable  expression. 
His  manner  was  easy  and  pleasant;  only  at  times 
it  became  apparent  that  his  ideas  were  in  perfect 
order,  so  that  he  would'  naturally  not  care  to  be  cor- 


/ 


/ 


14  The  Country  House 

rected.  His  father,  Lord  Montrossor,  whose  seat  was 
at  Coldingham,  six  miles  away,  would  ultimately; 
yield  to  him  his  place  in  the  House  of  Lords. 

And  next  him  sat  Mrs.  Pendyce.  A  portrait  of 
this  lady  hung  over  the  sideboard  at  the  end  of  the 
room,  and  though  it  had  been  painted  by  a  fashion- 
able painter,  it  had  caught  a  gleam  of  that  **  some- 
thing" still  in  her  face  these  twenty  years  later. 
She  was  not  young,  her  dark  hair  was  going  grey, 
but  she  was  not  old,  for  she  had  been  married  at 
nineteen  and  was  still  only  fifty- two.  Her  face  was 
rather  long  and  very  pale,  and  her  eyebrows  arched 
and  dark  and  always  slightly  raised.  Her  eyes  were 
dark  grey,  sometimes  almost  black,  for  the  pupils 
dilated  when  she  was  moved;  her  lips  were  the  least 
thing  parted,  and  the  expression  of  those  lips  and  "^ 
eyes  was  of  a  rather  touching  gentleness,  of  a  rather 
touching  expectancy.  And  yet  all  this  was  not  the 
"something";  that  was  rather  the  outward  sign  of  aii 
inborn  sense  that  she  had  no  need  to  ask  for  things, 
of  an  instinctive  faith  that  she  already  had  them.  By 
that  "something,"  and  by  her  long  transparent 
hands,  men  could  tell  that  she  had  been  a  Totteridge. 
And  her  voice  which  was  rather  slow,  with  a  lit- 
tle, not  unpleasant  trick  of  speech,  and  her  eyelids 
by  second  nature  just  a  trifle  lowered,  confirmed 
this  impression.  Over  her  bosom,  which  hid  the 
heart  of  a  lady,  rose  and  fell  a  piece  of  wonderful  old 
lace. 

Round  the  corner  again  Sir  James  Maiden  and 
Bee  Pendyce  (the  eldest  daughter)  were  talking  of 
horses  and  hunting — ^Bee  seldom  from  choice  spoke 
of  anything  else.  Her  face  was  pleasant  and  good, 
yet  not  quite  pretty,  and  this  little  fact  seemed  to  have 


A  Party  at  Worsted  Skeynes       15 

entered  into  her  very  nature,  making  her  shy  and 
ever  willing  to  do  things  for  others. 

Sir  James  had  small  grey  whiskers  and  a  carved, 
keen  visage.  He  came  of  an  old  Kentish  family 
which  had  migrated  to  Cambridgeshire;  his  coverts 
were  exceptionally  fine,  he  was  also  a  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  a  Colonel  of  Yeomanry,  a  keen  Churchman, 
and  much  feared  by  poachers.  He  held  the  reaction- 
ary views  already  mentioned,  being  a  little  afraid 
of  Lady  Maiden. 

Beyond  Miss  Pendyce  sat  the  Reverend  Hussell 
Barter,  who  would  shoot  to-morrow  but  would  not 
attend  the  race-meeting  on  Wednesday. 

The  Rector  of  Worsted  Skeynes  was  not  tall, 
and  his  head  had  been  rendered  almost  bald  by 
thought.  His  broad  face,  of  very  straight  build 
from  the  top  of  the  forehead  to  the  base  of  the  chin, 
was  well- coloured,  clean-shaven,  and  of  a  shape 
that  may  be  seen  in  portraits  of  the  Georgian  era ; 
his  cheeks  were  full  and  folded,  his  lower  lip  had  a 
habit  of  protruding,  and  his  eyebrows  jutted  out  above 
his  full,  light  eyes.  His  manner  was  authoritative, 
and  he  articulated  his  words  in  a  voice  to  which  long 
service  in  the  pulpit  had  imparted  remarkable  carry- 
ing power,  in  fact,  when  engaged  in  private  conversa- 
tion it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  was  not  overheard. 
Perhaps,  even  in  confidential  matters,  he  was  not 
unwilling  that  what  he  said  should  bear  fruit.  In 
some  ways  indeed  he  was  typical.  Uncertainty, 
hesitation,  toleration — except  of  such  opinions  as 
he  held-^he  did  not  like.  Imagination  he  distrusted. 
He  found  his  duty  in  life  very  clear,  and  other  people's 
perhaps  clearer,  and  he  did  not  encourage  his  parish- 
ioners to  think  for  themselves.    The  habit  seemed 


i6  The  Country  House 

to  him  a  dangerous  one.  He  was  outspoken  in  his 
opinions,  and  when  he  had  occasion  to  find  fault, 
spoke  of  the  offender  as  "a  man  of  no  character,"  "a 
fellow  like  that, "  with  such  a  ring  of  conviction  that 
his  audience  could  not  but  be  convinced  of  the  im- 
morality of  that  person.  He  had  a  bluff,  jolly  way 
of  speaking,  and  was  popular  in  his  parish — a.  good 
cricketer,  a  still  better  fisherman,  a  fair  shot,  though, 
as  he  said,  he  could  not  really  afford  time  for  shoot- 
ing. While  disclaiming  interference  in  secular  mat- 
ters he  watched  the  tendencies  of  his  flock  from  a 
sound  point  of  view,  and  especially  encouraged  them 
to  support  the  existing  order  of  things,  the  British 
Empire,  and  the  English  Church.  His  cure  was 
hereditary,  and  he  fortunately  possessed  some  private 
means,  for  he  had  a  large  family.  His  partner  at 
dinner  was  Norah,  the  younger  of  the  two  Pendyce 
girls,  who  had  a  round,  open  face,  and  a  more  decided 
manner  than  her  sister  Bee. 

Her  brother  George,  the  eldest  son,  sat  on  her 
right.  George  was  of  middle  height,  with  a  red- 
brown,  clean-shaved  face  and  solid  jaw;  his  eyes  were 
grey,  he  had  firm  lips,  and  darkish,  carefully  brushed 
hair  a  little  thin  on  the  top,  but  with  that  peculiar 
gloss  seen  on  the  hair  of  some  men  about  town.  His 
clothes  were  unostentatiously  perfect.  Such  men 
may  be  seen  in  Piccadilly  at  any  hour  of  the  day 
or  night.  He  had  been  intended  for  the  Guards, 
but  had  failed  to  pass  the  necessary  examination, 
through  no  fault  of  his  own,  owing  to  a  constitu- 
tional inability  to  spell.  Had  he  been  his  younger 
brother  Gerald  he  would  probably  have  fulfilled 
the  Pendyce  tradition,  and  passed  into  the  Army 
as  a  matter  of  course.    And  had  GerMd  (now  Captain 


A  Party  of  Worsted  Skeynes        1 7 

Pendyce)  been  George  the  elder  son,  he  would  prob- 
ably have  failed.  George  lived  at  his  club  in  town 
on  an  allowance  of  six  hundred  a  year,  and  sat  a  great 
deal  in  a  bay-window  reading  Ruff's  Guide  to  the. 
Turf. 

He  raised  his  eyes  from  the  menu  and  looked 
stealthily  around.  Helen  Belle w  was  talking  to  his 
father,  her  white  shoulder  turned  a  little  away. 
George  was  proud  of  his  composure,  but  there  was 
a  strange  longing  in  his  face.  She  gave  indeed  just 
excuse  for  people  to  consider  her  too  good-looking 
for  the  position  in  which  she  was  placed.  Her  figure 
was  tall  and  supple  and  full,  and  now  that  she  no 
longer  hunted  was  getting  fuller;  her  hair,  looped 
back  in  loose  bands  across  a  broad  low  brow  had 
a  peculiar  soft  lustre;  there  was  a  touch  of  sensuality 
about  her  lips.  The  face  was  too  broad  across  the 
brow  and  cheekbones,  but  the  eyes  were  magnificent- 
ice- grey,  sometimes  almost  green,  always  luminous, 
and  set  in  with  dark  lashes. 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  George's  gaze, 
as  of  a  man  forced  to  look  against  his  will. 

It  had  been  going  on  all  that  past  summer,  and 
still  he  did  not  know  where  he  stood.  Sometimes 
she  seemed  fond  of  him — sometimes  treated  him  as 
though  he  had  no  chance.  That  which  he  had  begun 
as  a  game  was  now  deadly  earnest.  And  this  in 
itself  was  tragic.  That  comfortable  ease  of  spirit 
which  is  the  breath  of  life,  was  taken  away;  he  could 
think  of  nothing  but  her.  Was  she  one  of  those 
women  who  feed  on  men's  admiration  and  give  them 
no  return?  Was  she  only  waiting  to  make  her  con- 
quest more  secure?  These  riddles  he  asked  of  her 
face  a  hundred  times,  lying  awake  in  the  dark.     To 


i8  The  Country  House 

George  Pendyce,  a  man  of  the  world,  unaccustomed 
to  privation,  whose  simple  creed  was  "Live  and 
enjoy,"  there  was  something  terrible  about  a  longing 
which  never  left  him  for  a  moment,  which  he  could 
not  help  any  more  than  he  could  help  eating,  the  end 
of  which  he  could  not  see.  He  had  known  her  when 
she  lived  at  the  Firs,  he  had  known  her  in  the  hunting 
field,  but  the  passion  was  only  of  last  summer's  date. 
It  had  sprung  suddenly  out  of  a  flirtation  started  at 
a  dance. 

A  man  about  town  does  not  psychologise  himself, 
he  accepts  his  condition  with  touching  simplicity. 
He  is  hungry;  he  must  be  fed.  He  is  thirsty;  he 
must  drink.  Why  he  is  hungry,  when  he  became 
hungry,  these  inquiries  are  beside  the  mark.  No 
ethical  aspect  of  the  matter  troubled  him ;  the  attain- 
ment of  a  married  woman,  not  living  with  her 
husband,  did  not  impinge  upon  his  creed.  What 
would  come  after,  though  full  of  unpleasant  possi- 
bilities, he  left  to  the  future.  His  real  disquiet,  far 
nearer,  far  more  primitive  and  simple,  was  the  feeling 
of  drifting  helplessly  in  a  current  so  strong  that  he 
could  not  keep  his  feet. 

"Ah,  yes;  a  bad  case.  Dreadful  thing  for  the 
Sweetenhams!  That  young  fellow  's  been  obliged  to 
-^ive  up  the  Army.  Can't  think  what  old  Sweetenham 
was  about.  He  must  have  known  his  son  was  hit.  I 
should  say  Bethany  himself  was  the  only  one  in  the 
dark.  There  *s  no  doubt  Lady  Rose  was  to  blame!'* 
Mr.  Pendyce  was  speaking. 

Mrs.  Bellew  smiled: 

•*My  sympathies  are  all  with  Lady  Rose;  what  do 
you  say,  George?" 

George   frowned. 


A  Party  of  Worsted  Skeynes       19 

**I  always  thought,"  he  said,  "that  Bethany 
was  an  ass." 

"George,"  said  Mr.  Pendyce,  "is  immoral.  All 
young  men  are  immoral.  I  notice  it  more  and  more. 
You  've  given  up  your  hunting,  I  hear." 

Mrs.  Bellew  sighed: 

"One  can't  hunt  on  next  to  nothing!" 

"Ah,  you  live  in  London.  London  spoils  every- 
body. People  don't  take  the  interest  in  hunting  and 
farming  they  used  to.  I  can't  get  George  here  at  all. 
Not  that  I  'm  a  believer  in  apron-strings.  Young 
men  will  be  young  men ! " 

Thus  summing  up  the  laws  of  Nature  the  Squire  re- 
sumed his  knife  and  fork. 

But  neither  Mrs.  Bellew  nor  George  followed  his 
example;  the  one  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  her 
plate  and  a  faint  smile  playing  on  her  lips,  the  other, 
sat  without  a  smile,  and  his  eyes  in  which  there  was 
such  a  deep  resentful  longing  looked  from  his  father 
to  Mrs.  Bellew,  and  from  Mrs.  Bellew  to  his  mother. 
And  as  though  down  that  vista  of  faces  and  fruits 
and  flowers  a  secret  current  had  been  set  flowing,  Mrs. 
Pendyce  nodded  gently  to  her  son. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  COVERT  SHOOT 

AT  the  head  of  the  breakfast  table  sat  Mr.  Pendyce, 
eating  methodically.  He  was  somewhat  silent, 
as  became  a  man  who  has  just  read  family  prayers,, 
but  about  the  silence,  and  the  pile  of  half-opened 
letters  on  his  right,  was  a  hint  of  autocracy. 

"Be  informal — do  what  you  like,  dress  as  you  like, 
sit  where  you  like,  eat  what  you  like,  drink  tea  or 

coffee,  but "  Each  glance  of  his  eyes,  each  sentence 

of  his  sparing,  semi-genial  talk,  seemed  to  repeat  that 
"but." 

At  the  foot  of  the  breakfast  table  sat  Mrs.  Pendyce 
behind  a  silver  urn  that  emitted  a  gentle  steam.  Her 
hands  worked  without  ceasing  amongst  cups,  and 
while  they  worked  her  lips  worked  too  in  spasmodic 
utterances  that  never  had  any  reference  to  herself. 
Pushed  a  little  to  her  left  and  entirely  neglected,  lay 
a  piece  of  dry  toast  on  a  small  white  plate.  Twice 
she  took  it  up,  buttered  a  bit  of  it,  and  put  it  down 
again.  Once  she  rested,  and  her  eyes  which  fell  on 
Mrs.  Bellew  seemed  to  say:  "How  very  charming 
you  look,  my  dear!"  Then,  taking  up  the  sugar- 
tongs,  she  began  again. 

On  the  long  sideboard  covered  with  a  white  cloth 
reposed  a  number  of  edibles  only  to  be  found  amongst 
that  portion  of  the  community  which  breeds  creatures 
for  its  own  devouring.    At  one  end  of  this  row  of 

ao 


The  Covert  Shoot  21 

viands  was  a  large  game  pie  with  a  triangular  gap 
in  the  pastry;  at  the  other,  on  two  oval  dishes,  lay 
four  cold  partridges  in  various  stages  of  decompo- 
sition. Behind  them  a  silver  basket  of  openwork 
design  was  occupied  by  three  bunches  of  black,  one 
bunch  of  white  grapes,  and  a  silver  grape-cutter, 
which  performed  no  function  (it  was  so  blunt),  but 
had  once  belonged  to  a  Totteridge,  and  wore  their 
crest. 

No  servants  were  in  the  room,  but  the  side  door 
was  now  and  again  opened,  and  something  brought 
in;  and  this  suggested  that  behind  the  door  persons 
were  collected,  only  waiting  to  be  called  upon.  It 
was  in  fact  as  though  Mr.  Pendyce  had  said:  "A 
butler  and  two  footmen  at  least  could  hand  you 
things,  but  this  is  a  simple  country  house." 

At  times  a  male  guest  rose,  napkin  in  hand,  and 
said  to  a  lady:  "Can  I  get  you  anything  from  the 
sideboard?"  Being  refused,  he  went  and  filled  his 
own  plate.  Three  dogs — ^two  fox-terriers  and  a  de- 
crepit Skye — circled  round  uneasily,  smelling  at  the 
visitors'  napkins.  And  there  went  up  a  hum  of  talk, 
in  which  sentences  like  these  could  be  distinguished: 
"  Rippin'  stand  that,  by  the  wood.  D  'you  remember 
your  rockettin'  woodcock  last  year,  Jerry?"  "And 
the  dear  old  Squire  never  touched  a  feather!  Did 
you.  Squire?"  "Dick — ^Dick!  Bad  dog — come  and 
do  your  tricks.  Trust — ^trust!  Paid  for!  Is  n't  he 
rather  a  darling?" 

On  Mr.  Pendyce's  foot,  or  by  the  side  of  his  chair, 
whence  he  could  see  what  was  being  eaten,  sat  the 
spaniel  John,  and  now  and  then  Mr.  Pendyce,  taking 
a  small  portion  of  something  between  his  finger  and 
thumb,  would  say: 


22  The  Country  House 

"John! — ^Make  a  good  breakfast,  Sir  James;  I  al- 
ways say  a  half- breakfasted  man  is  no  good!" 

And  Mrs.  Pendyce,  her  eyebrows  Ufted,  would 
look  anxiously  up  and  down  the  table,  murmuring: 
**  Another  cup,  dear;  let  me  see — ^are  you  sugar?" 

When  all  had  finished  a  silence  fell,  as  if  each 
sought  to  get  away  from  what  he  had  been  eating, 
as  if  each  felt  he  had  been  engaged  in  an  unworthy 
practice;  then  Mr.  Pendyce,  finishing  his  last  grape, 
wiped  his  mouth. 

"You've  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  gentlemen;  we 
start  at  ten- fifteen." 

Mrs.  Pendyce,  left  seated  with  a  vague,  ironical 
smile,  ate  one  mouthful  of  her  buttered  toast,  now 
very  old  and  leathery,  gave  the  rest  to  "the  dear 
dogs,"  and  called: 

"George!  You  want  a  new  shooting  tie,  dear 
boy;  that  green  one  's  quite  faded.  I  *ve  been  meaning 
to  get  some  silks  down  for  ages.  Have  you  had  any 
news  of  your  horse  this  morning?" 

"Yes,  Blacksmith  says  he  's  as  fit  as  a  fiddle." 

"I  do  so  hope  he  '11  win  that  race  for  you.  Your 
Uncle  Hubert  once  lost  four  thousand  pounds  over 
the  Rutlandshire.  I  remember  perfectly;  my  father 
had  to  pay  it.   I  'm  so  glad  you  don't  bet,  dear  boy !  '* 

"My  dear  Mother,  I  do  bet!" 

"Oh,  George,  I  hope  not  much!  for  goodness' 
sake,  don't  tell  your  father;  he's  like  all  the  Pendyces, 
can't  bear  a  risk. " 

"My  dear  Mother,  I'm  not  likely  to;  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  there  is  no  risk.  I  stand  to  win  a 
lot  of  money  to  nothing." 

"But,  George,  is  that  right?" 

**0£  course  it 's  all  right." 


The  Covert  Shoot  23 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  understand?"  Mrs.  Pen- 
dyce  dropped  her  eyes,  a  flush  came  into  her  white 
cheeks ;  she  looked  up  again  and  said  quickly :  "  George, 
I  should  like  just  a  little  bet  on  your  horse — a.  real 
bet,  say  about  a  sovereign." 

George  Pendyce's  creed  permitted  the  show  of  no 
emotion.     He  smiled. 

"All  right.  Mother;  I  '11  put  it  on  for  you.  It  '11 
be  about  eight  to  one. " 

"Does  that  mean  that  if  he  wins  I  shall  get  eight? " 

George  nodded. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  abstractedly  at  his  tie. 

"I  think  it  might  be  two  sovereigns;  one  seems 
very  little  to  lose,  because  I  do  so  want  him  to  win. 
Is  n't  Helen  Bellew  perfectly  charming  this  morning? 
It 's  delightful  to  see  a  woman  look  her  best  in  the 
morning. " 

George  turned,  to    hide  the  colour  in  his  cheeks. 

"She  looks  fresh  enough,  certainly." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  glanced  up  at  him,  there  was  a  touch 
of  quizzicality  in  one  of  her  lifted  eyebrows: 

"I  must  n't  keep  you,  dear;  you  '11  be  late  for  the 
shooting. " 

Mr.  Pendyce,  a  sportsman  of  the  old  school,  who 
still  kept  pointers,  which,  in  the  teeth  of  modem 
fashion  he  was  unable  to  employ,  set  his  face  against 
the  use  of  two  guns. 

"Any  man,"  he  would  say,  "who  cares  to  shoot 
at  Worsted  Skeynes,  must  do  with  one  gun,  as 
my  dear  old  father  had  to  do  before  me.  He  '11  get 
a  good  day's  sport  at  wild  birds"  (he  reared  some 
eight  hundred  pheasants  yearly,  which  he  preferred 
to  describe  as  wild  birds) ;  "but  don't  let  him  expect 
one  of  these  battues — sheer  butchery,  I  call  them. " 


24  The  Country  House 

He  was  excessively  fond  of  birds,  it  was,  in  fact, 
his  hobby,  and  he  had  collected  under  glass  cases 
a  prodigious  number  of  specimens  of  those  species 
which  are  in  danger  of  becoming  extinct,  having 
really  in  some  Pendycean  sort  of  way,  a  feeling  that 
by  this  practice  he  was  doing  them  a  good  turn, 
championing  them,  as  it  were,  to  a  world  that  would 
soon  be  unable  to  look  upon  them  in  the  flesh.  He 
wished  too  that  his  collection  should  become  an 
integral  part  of  the  estate,  and  be  passed  on  to  his 
son,  and  his  son's  son  after  him. 

"Look  at  this  Dartford  Warbler,"  he  would  say; 
"beautiful  little  creature — getting  rarer  every  day. 
I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  procuring  this  specimen. 
You  would  n't  believe  me  if  I  told  you  what  I  had 
to  pay  for  him!" 

Some  of  his  unique  birds  he  had  shot  himself, 
having  in  his  youth  made  expeditions  to  foreign 
countries  solely  with  this  object,  but  the  great  ma- 
jority he  had  been  compelled  to  purchase.  In  his 
library  were  row  upon  row  of  books  carefully  arranged 
and  bearing  on  this  fascinating  subject;  and  his  col- 
lection of  rare,  almost  extinct,  birds'  eggs  was  one 
of  the  finest  in  the  "three  kingdoms."  One  egg 
especially  he  would  point  to  with  pride  as  the  last 
obtainable  of  that  particular  breed.  "This  was 
procured,"  he  would  say,  "by  my  dear  old  gillie 
Angus  out  of  the  bird's  very  nest.  There  was  just 
the  single  egg.  The  species,"  he  added,  tenderly 
handling  the  delicate,  porcelain-like  oval  in  his  brown 
hand  covered  with  very  fine,  blackish  hairs,  "is 
now  extinct."  He  was,  in  fact,  a  true  bird-lover, 
strongly  condemning  cockneys,  or  rough,  ignorant 
persons  who,  with  no  collections  of  their  own,  wan- 


The  Covert  Shoot  25 

tonly  destroyed  kingfishers  or  scarce  birds  of  any  sort, 
out  of  pure  stupidity.  **  I  would  have  them  flogged, " 
he  would  say,  for  he  believed  that  no  such  bird  should 
be  killed  except  on  commission,  and  for  choice — 
barring  such  extreme  cases  as  that  Dartford  War- 
bler— ^in  some  foreign  country,  or  remoter  part  of 
the  British  Isles.  It  was  indeed  illustrative  of  Mr. 
Pendyce's  character  and  whole  point  of  view,  that 
whenever  a  rare,  winged  stranger  appeared  on  his 
own  estate,  it  was  talked  of  as  an  event,  and  pre- 
served alive  with  the  greatest  care,  in  the  hope  that 
it  might  breed  and  be  handed  down  with  the  property; 
but  if  it  were  personally  known  to  belong  to  Mr. 
Fuller  or  Lord  Quarryman,  whose  estates  abutted 
on  Worsted  Skeynes,  and  there  was  grave  and  immi- 
nent danger  of  its  going  back,  it  was  promptly  shot 
and  stuffed,  that  it  might  not  be  lost  to  posterity. 
An  encounter  with  another  landowner  having  the 
same  hobby,  of  whom  there  were  several  in  his 
neighbourhood,  would  upset  him  for  a  week,  making 
him  strangely  morose,  and  he  would  at  once  re- 
double his  efforts  to  add  something  rarer  than  ever 
to  his  own  collection. 

His  arrangements  for  shooting  were  precisely 
conceived.  Little  slips  of  paper  with  the  names  of 
the  * 'guns'*  written  thereon  were  placed  in  a  hat, 
and  one  by  one  drawn  out  again,  and  this  he  always 
did  himself.  Behind  the  right  wing  of  the  house 
he  held  a  review  of  the  beaters  who  filed  before  him 
out  of  the  yard,  each  with  a  long  stick  in  his  hand 
and  no  expression  on  his  face.  Five  minutes  of 
directions  to  the  keeper,  and  then  the  guns  started 
carrying  their  own  weapons  and  a  sufficiency  of 
cartridges  for  the  first  drive,  in  the  old  way. 


26  The  Country  House 

A  misty  radiance  clung  over  the  grass  as  the  sun 
dried  the  heavy  dew;  the  thrushes  hopped  and  ran 
and  hid  themselves,  the  rooks  cawed  peacefully  in 
the  old  elms.  At  an  angle  the  game  cart,  constructed 
on  Mr.  Pendyce's  own  pattern,  and  drawn  by  a 
hairy  horse  in  charge  of  an  aged  man,  made  its  way 
slowly  to  the  end  of  the  first  beat. 

George  lagged  behind,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets, 
drinking  in  the  joy  of  the  tranquil  day,  the  soft  bird 
sounds,  so  clear  and  friendly,  that  chorus  of  wild  life. 
The  scent  of  the  coverts  stole  to  him,  and  he  thought: 

"A  ripping  day  for  shooting!'* 

The  Squire,  wearing  a  suit  carefully  coloured  so 
that  no  bird  should  see  him,  leather  leggings,  and  a 
cloth  helmet  of  his  own  devising,  ventilated  by  many 
little  holes,  came  up  to  his  son,  and  the  spaniel  John, 
who  had  a  passion  for  the  collection  of  birds  almost 
equal  to  his  masters*,  came  up  too. 

**You're  end  gun,  George,"  he  said;  "you'll  get 
a  nice  high  bird!" 

George  felt  the  ground  with  his  feet,  and  blew  a 
speck  of  dust  off  his  barrels,  and  the  smell  of  the 
oil  sent  a  delicious  tremor  darting  through  him. 
Everything,  even  Helen  Bellew,  was  forgotten.  Then 
in  the  silence  rose  a  far-off  clamour;  a  cock  pheasant 
skimming  low,  his  plumage  silken  in  the  sun,  dived 
out  of  the  green  and  golden  spinney,  curled  to  the 
right,  and  was  lost  in  undergrowth.  Some  pigeons 
passed  over  at  a  great  height.  The  tap- tap  of  sticks 
beating  against  trees  began;  then  with  a  fitful 
rushing  noise  a  pheasant  came  straight  out.  George 
threw  up  his  gun  and  pulled.  The  bird  stopped  in 
mid-air,  jerked  forward,  and  fell  headlong  into  the 
grass  sods  with  a  thud.     In  the  sunlight  the  dead 


The  Covert  Shoot  27 

bird  lay,  and  a  smirk  of  triumph  played  on  George's 
lips.     He  was  feeling  the  joy  of  life. 

During  his  covert  shoots  the  Squire  had  the  habit 
of  recording  his  impressions  in  a  mental  note-book. 
He  put  special  marks  against  such  as  missed,  or 
shot  birds  behind  the  waist,  or  placed  lead  in  them 
to  the  detriment  of  their  market  value,  or  broke 
only  one  leg  of  a  hare  at  a  time,  causing  the  animal 
to  cry  like  a  tortured  child,  which  some  men  do  not 
like;  or  such  as,  anxious  for  fame,  claimed  dead 
creatures  that  they  had  not  shot,  or  peopled  the  next 
beat  with  imaginary  slain,  or  too  frequently 
"wiped  an  important  neighbour's  eye,"  or  shot  too 
many  beaters  in  the  legs.  Against  this  evidence, 
however,^  he  unconsciously  weighed  the  lAore  unde- 
niable social  facts,  such  as  the  ■'itlc  of  Winlo\/*s 
father,  Sir  James  Maiden's  coverts,  which  must  also 
presently  be  shot;  Thomas  Brr.nctwhitc's  position 
in  the  financial  world ;  General  Pend;-^e's  relationship 
to  himself ;  and  the  importance  of  the  English  Church. 
Against  Foxleigh  alone  he  could  put  no  mt-rks.  The 
fellow  destroyed  everything  that  came  within  reach 
with  utter  precision,  and  this  was  perhaps  fortunate, 
for  Foxleigh  had  neither  title,  coverts,  position,  nor 
cloth!  And  the  Squire  weighed  one  thing  else 
besides — ^the  pleasure  of  giving  them  all  a  good  day's 
sport,  for  his  heart  was  kind. 

The  sun  had  fallen  well  behind  the  home  wood 
when  the  guns  stood  waiting  for  the  last  drive  of  the 
day.  From  the  keeper's  cottage  in  the  hollow, 
where  late  threads  of  crimson  clung  in  the  brown 
network  of  Virginia-creeper,  rose  a  mist  of  wood 
smoke,  dispersed  upon  the  breeze.  Sound  there 
was  none,  only  that  faint  stir — ^the  far,  far  callings 


28  The  Country  House 

of  men  and  beasts  and  birds — ^that  never  quite  dies 
of  a  country  evening.  High  above  the  wood  some 
startled  pigeons  were  still  wheeling,  no  other  life 
in  sight;  but  a  gleam  of  sunlight  stole  down  the  side 
of  the  covert  and  laid  a  burnish  on  the  turned  leaves 
till  the  whole  wood  seemed  quivering  with  magic. 
Out  of  that  quivering  wood  a  wounded  rabbit  stole 
into  the  open  to  die.  It  lay  down  on  its  side  on  the 
slope  of  a  tussock  of  grass,  its  hind  legs  drawn  under 
it,  its  forelegs  raised  like  the  hands  of  a  praying 
child.  Motionless  as  death,  all  its  remaining  life 
was  centred  in  its  black  soft  eyes.  Uncomplaining, 
ungrudging,  unknowing,  with  that  poor  soft  wan- 
dering eye,  it  was  going  back  to  Mother  Earth. 
There  Foxleigh,  too,  some  day  must  go,  asking  of 
Nature  why  she  had  murdered  him. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  BLISSFUL  HOUR 

IT  was  the  hour  between  tea  and  dinner;  when 
the  spirit  of  the  country  house  was  resting,  con- 
scious of  its  virtue,  half  asleep. 

Having  bathed  and  changed,  George  Pendyce 
took  his  betting-book  into  the  smoking-room.  In  a 
nook  devoted  to  literature,  protected  from  draught 
and  intrusion  by  a  high  leather  screen,  he  sat  down 
in  an  armchair  and  fell  into  a  doze. 

With  legs  crossed,  his  chin  resting  on  one  hand, 
his  comely  figure  relaxed,  he  exhaled  a  fragrance  of 
soap,  as  though  in  this  perfect  peace  his  soul  were 
giving  off  its  natural  odour.  His  spirit,  on  the  bor- 
derland of  dreams,  trembled  with  those  faint  stirrings 
of  chivalry  and  aspiration,  the  outcome  of  physical 
well-being  after  a  long  day  in  the  open  air,  the  out- 
come of  security  from  all  that  is  unpleasant  and 
fraught  with  danger.     He  was  awakened  by  voices. 

"George  is  not  a  bad  shot!" 

"Gave  a  shocking  exhibition  at  the  last  stand; 
Mrs.  Bellew  was  with  him.  They  were  going  over 
him  like  smoke;   he  could  n't  touch  a  feather." 

It  was  Winlow's  voice.  A  silence,  then  Thomas 
Brandwhite's: 

"A  mistake,  the  ladies'  coming  out.  I  never  will 
have  them  myself.     What  do  you  say,  Sir  James?" 

"Bad  principle — ^very  bad!" 

99 


30  The  Country  House 

A  laugh — Thomas  Brandwhite's  laugh,  the  laugh 
of  a  man  never  quite  sure  of  himself. 

"That  fellow  Bellew  is  a  cracked  chap.  They  call 
him  the  "desperate  character "  about  here.  Drinks 
like  a  fish,  and  rides  like  the  devil.  She  used  to  go 
pretty  hard,  too.  I  've  noticed  there  's  always  a 
couple  like  that  in  a  hunting  country.  Did  you  ever 
see  him?  Thin,  high- shouldered,  white- faced  chap, 
with  little  dark  eyes,  and  a  red  moustache?" 

"She  's  still  a  young  woman?" 

"Thirty  or  thirty- two." 

"How  was  it  they  did  n't  get  on?" 

The  sound  of  a  match  being  struck. 

"Case  of  the  kettle  and  the  pot." 

"It 's  easy  to  see  she  's  fond  of  admiration.  Love 
of  admiration  plays  Old  Harry  with  women!" 

Winlow's  leisurely  tones  again: 

"There  was  a  child,  I  believe,  and  it  died.  And 
after  that — ^I  know  there  was  some  story;  you  never 
could  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  Bellew  chucked  his 
regiment  in  consequence.  She  's  subject  to  moods, 
they  say,  when  nothing 's  exciting  enough ;  must 
skate  on  thin  ice,  must  have  a  man  skating  after 
her.  If  the  poor  devil  weighs  more  than  she  does, 
in  he  goes." 

"That's  like  her  father,  old  Cheriton.  I  knew 
him  at  the  club — one  of  the  old  sort  of  Squires, 
married  his  second  wife  at  sixty  and  buried  her  at 
eighty.  Old  "Claret  and  Piquet"  they  called  him; 
had  more  children  under  the  rose  than  any  man  in 
Devonshire.  I  saw  him  playing  half-crown  points 
the  week  before  he  died.  It 's  in  the  blood.  What  's 
George's  weight — ^ah,  ha!" 

'*Jt*s  no  laughing  matter,  Brandwhite.    There  *5 


The  Blissful  Hour  31 

time  for  a  hundred  up  before  dinner,  if  you  care  for 
a  game,  Winlow?" 

The  sound  of  chairs  drawn  back,  of  footsteps, 
and  the  closing  of  a  door.  George  was  alone  again, 
a  spot  of  red  in  either  of  his  cheeks.  Those  vague 
stirrings  of  chivalry  and  aspiration  were  gone,  and 
gone  that  sense  of  well-earned  ease.  He  got  up, 
came  out  of  his  corner,  and  walked  to  and  fro  on  the 
tiger-skin  before  the  fire.  He  lit  a  cigarette,  threw 
ii-  away,  and  lit  another. 

Skating  on  thin  ice!  That  would  not  stop  him! 
Their  gossip  would  not  stop  him,  nor  their  sneers; 
•*^hey  would  but  send  him  on  the  faster! 

He  threw  away  the  second  cigarette.  It  was 
strange  for  him  to  go  to  the  drawing-room  at  this 
hour  of  the  day,  but  he  went. 

Opening  the  door  quietly,  he  saw  the  long  pleas- 
ant room  lighted  with  tall  oil  lamps.  Mrs. 
Bellew  seated  at  the  piano,  singing.  The  tea  things 
were  still  on  a  table  at  one  end,  but  every  one  had 
finished.  As  far  away  as  might  be,  in  the  embrasure 
of  the  bay-window.  General  Pendyce  and  Bee  were 
playing  chess.  Grouped  in  the  centre  of  the  room 
by  one  of  the  lamps,  Lady  Maiden,  Mrs.  Winlow, 
and  Mrs.  Brandwhite  had  turned  their  faces  towards 
the  piano,  and  a  sort  of  slight  unwillingness  or  sur- 
prise showed  on  those  faces,  a  sort  of  **We  were 
having  a  most  interesting  talk;  I  don't  think  we 
ought  to  have  been  stopped." 

Before  the  fire,  with  his  long  legs  outstretched,  stood 
Gerald  Pendyce.  And  a  little  apart,  her  dark  eyes 
fixed  on  the  singer,  and  a  piece  of  embroidery  in 
her  lap,  sat  Mrs.  Pendyce,  on  the  edge  of  whose 
skirt  lay  Roy,  the  old  Skye-terrier. 


32  The  Country  House 

"Oh!  had  I  wist,  dear,  when  ye  kist, 

That  love  had  been  sae  false  a  thing, 
I  'd  closed  my  lips,  ere  't  came  to  clips, 

And  locked  'em  wi'  a  siller  pin! 
Waly!  waly!  love  is  bonnie 

When  it  is  early  days  and  new, 
But  when  't  is  old,  soon  it  grows  cold, 

And  fades  away  like  morning  dew!" 

This  was  the  song  George  heard,  trembling  and 
dying  to  the  chords  of  the  fine  piano  that  was  a  little 
out  of  tune. 

He  gazed  at  the  singer,  and  though  he  was  not 
musical  there  came  a  look  in  his  eyes  that  he  quickly 
hid  away. 

A  slight  murmur  occurred  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  and  from  the  fireplace  Gerald  called  out, 
*' Thanks,  that's  rippin'!" 

The  voice  of  General  Pendyce  rose  in  the  bay- 
window,  "Check!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce,  taking  up  her  embroidery,  on  which 
a  tear  had  dropped,  said  gently: 

"Thank  you,  dear;  most  charming!" 

Mrs.  Bellew  left  the  piano,  and  sat  down  beside 
her.  George  moved  into  the  bay-window.  He  knew 
nothing  of  chess,  indeed,  he  could  not  stand  the  game, 
but  from  here,  without  attracting  attention,  he  could 
Watch  Mrs.  Bellew. 

The  air  was  drowsy  and  sweet-scented,  a  log  of 
cedar- wood  had  just  been  put  on  the  tire;  the  voices 
of  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Bellew,  talking  of  what  he 
could  not  hear,  the  voices  of  Lady  Maiden,  Mrs. 
Brandwhite,  and  Gerald,  discussing  some  neighbours, 
of  Mrs.  Winlow  dissenting  or  assenting  in  turn,  all 
mingled  in  a  comfortable,  sleepy  sound,  clipped 
now   and   then   by  the  voice   of   General    Pendyce 


The  Blissful  Hour  33 

calling:  "Check!"  and  of  Bee  saying:  "Oh, 
Uncle!" 

A  feeling  of  rage  rose  in  George.  Why  should  they 
all  be  so  comfortable  and  cosy  while  this  perpetual  fire 
was  burning  in  himself?  And  he  fastened  his  moody 
eyes  on  her  who  was  keeping  him  thus  dancing  to  her 
pipes. 

He  made  an  awkward  movement  which  shook  the 
chess- table.  The  General  said  behind  him:  "Look 
out,    George !    What — ^what ! ' ' 

George  went  up  to  his  mother. 

"Let  's  have  a  look  at  that,  Mother. " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  handed 
up  her  work  with  a  smile  of  pleased  surprise. 

"My  dear  boy,  you  won't  understand  it  a  bit. 
It  's  for  the  front  of  my  new  frock. " 

George  took  the  piece  of  work.  He  did  not  under- 
stand it,  but  turning  and  twisting  it  he  could  breathe 
the  warmth  of  the  woman  he  loved.  In  bending 
over  the  embroidery  he  touched  Mrs.  Bellew's  shoul- 
der; it  was  not  drawn  away,  a  faint  pressure  seemed 
to  answer  his  own.  His  mother's  voice  recalled 
him: 

"Oh,  my  needle,  dear!  It  's  so  sweet  of  you,  but 
perhaps " 

George  handed  back  the  embroidery.  Mrs.  Pendyce 
received  it  with  a  grateful  look.  It  was  the  first  time 
he  had  ever  shown  an  interest  in  her  work. 

Mrs.  Bellew  had  taken  up  a  palm- leaf  fan  to  screen 
her  face  from  the  fire.     She  said  slowly: 

"If  we  win  to-morrow,  I  '11  embroider  you  some- 
thing, George." 

"And  if  we  lose?" 

Mrs.  Bellew  raised  her  eyes,  involuntarily  George 


34  The  Country  House 

moved  so  that  his  mother  could  not  see  the  sort  of 
slow  mesmerism  that  was  in  them. 

"If  we  lose,"  she  said,  "I  shall  sink  into  the  earth. 
We  must  win,  George. ' ' 

He  gave  an  uneasy  little  laugh,  and  glanced  quickly 
at  his  mother.  Mrs.  Pendyce  had  begun  to  draw  her 
needle  in  and  out  with  a  half-startled  look  on  her  face. 

"That  's  a  most  haunting  little  song  you  sang, 
dear,"   she  said. 

Mrs.  Bellew  answered:  "The  words  are  so  true, 
aren't  they?" 

George  felt  her  eyes  on  him,  and  tried  to  look  at 
her,  but  those  half-smiling,  half- threatening  eyes 
seemed  to  twist  and  turn  him  about  as  his  hands  had 
twisted  and  turned  his  mother's  embroidery.  Again 
across  Mrs.  Pendyce's  face  flitted  that  half-startled 
look. 

Suddenly  General  Pendyce's  voice  was  heard  saying 
very  loud : 

"Stale  ?     Nonsense,  Bee,  nonsense!    Why, , 

so  it  is!" 

A  hum  of  voices  from  the  centre  of  the  room  covered 
up  that  outburst,  and  Gerald,  stepping  to  the  hearth, 
threw  another  cedar  log  upon  the  fire.  The  smoke 
came  out  in  a  puff. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  leaned  back  in  her  chair  smiling  and 
wrinkling  her  fine,  thin  nose. 

"Delicious!"  she  said;  but  her  eyes  did  not  leave 
her  son's  face,  and  in  them  was  still  that  vague  alarm. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  HAPPY  HUNTING-GROUND 

OF  all  those  places  where,  by  a  judicious  admix- 
ture of  whip  and  spur,  oats  and  whiskey, 
horses  are  caused  to  place  one  leg  before  another  with 
unnecessary  rapidity,  in  order  that  men  may  ex- 
change little  pieces  of  metal  with  the  greater  freedom, 
Newmarket  Heath  is  "the  topmost,  and  merriest, 
and  best." 

This  museum  of  the  state  of  flux — ^the  secret 
reason  of  horse-racing  being  to  afford  an  example 
of  perpetual  motion,  (no  proper  racing-man  having 
ever  been  found  to  regard  either  gains  or  losses  in 
the  light  of  an  accompli: hed  fact),  this  museum 
of  th:^  state  of  flux  has  a  climate  unrivalled  for  the 
production  of  the   British   temperament. 

Not  without  a  due  proportion  of  that  essential 
formative  of  character,  east  wind,  it  has  at  once  the 
hottest  sun,  the  coldest  blizzards,  the  wettest  rain, 
of  any  place  of  its  size  in  "the  three  kingdoms." 
It  tends — in  advance  even  of  the  City  of  London — 
to  the  nurture  and  improvement  of  individualism; 

to  that  desirable  "I  '11  see  you  d d"  state  of  mind 

which  is  the  proud  objective  of  every  Englishman, 
and  especially  of  every  country  gentleman.  In 
a  word — a  mother  to  the  self-reliant  secretive- 
ness,  which  defies  intrusion  and  forms  an  integral 
part  in  the  Christianity  of  this  country — Newmarket 

35 


36  The  Country  House 

Heath  is  beyond  all  others  the  happy  hunting-ground 
of  the  landed  classes. 

In  the  Paddock  half  an  hour  before  the  Rutlandshire 
Handicap  was  to  be  run,  numbers  of  racing-men  were 
gathered  in  little  knots  of  two  and  three,  describing 
to  each  other  with  every  precaution  the  points  of 
strength  in  the  horses  they  had  laid  against,  the  points 
of  weakness  in  the  horses  they  had  backed,  or  vice 
versa,  together  with  the  latest  discrepancies  of  their 
trainers  and  jockeys.  At  the  far  end  George  Pendyce, 
his  trainer  Blacksmith,  and  his  jockey  Swells,  were 
talking  in  low  tones.  Many  people  have  observed 
with  surprise  the  close-buttoned  secrecy  of  all  who 
have  to  do  with  horses.  It  is  no  matter  for  wonder. 
The  horse  is  one  of  those  generous  and  somewhat 
careless  animals  that,  if  not  taken  firmly  from  the 
first,  will  surely  give  itself  away.  Essential  to 
a  man  who  has  to  do  with  horses  is  a  complete  close- 
ness of  physiognomy,  otherwise  the  animal  will  never 
know  what  is  expected  of  him.  The  more  that  is 
expected  of  him,  the  closer  must  be  the  expression 
of  his  friends,  or  a  grave  fiasco  may  have  to  be 
deplored. 

It  was  for  these  reasons  that  George's  face  wore 
more  than  its  habitual  composure,  and  the  faces  of 
his  trainer  and  his  jockey  were  alert,  determined, 
and  expressionless.  Blacksmith,  a  little  man,  had 
in  his  hand  a  short  notched  cane,  with  which,  con- 
trary to  expectation,  he  did  not  switch  his  legs. 
His  eyelids  drooped  over  his  shrewd  eyes,  his  upper 
lip  was  advanced  over  the  lower,  and  he  wore  no 
hair  on  his  face.  The  jockey  Swells'  pinched-up 
countenance,  with  jutting  eyebrows  and  practi- 
cally no  cheeks,  had  under    George's    racing-cap   of 


The  Happy  Hunting-Ground       37 

'*  peacock  blue"  a  sub  fuse  hue  like  that  of  old  furni- 
ture. 

The  Ambler  had  been  bought  out  of  the  stud  of 
Colonel  Dorking,  a  man  opposed  on  high  grounds  to 
the  racing  of  two-year-olds,  and  at  the  age  of  three 
had  never  run.  Showing  more  than  a  suspicion 
of  form  in  one  or  two  home  trials,  he  ran  a  bye  in  the 
Fane  Stakes,  when  obviously  not  up  to  the  mark,  and 
was  then  withdrawn  from  the  public  gaze.  The 
Stable  had  from  the  start  kept  its  eye  on  the  Rutland- 
shire Handicap,  and  no  sooner  was  Goodwood  over 
than  the  commission  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  Bar- 
ney's, well  known  for  their  power  to  enlist,  at  the 
most  appropriate  moment,  the  sympathy  of  the 
public  in  a  horse's  favour.  Almost  coincidentally 
with  the  completion  of  the  Stable  Commission,  it 
was  found  that  the  public  were  determined  to  sup- 
port the  Ambler  at  any  price  over  seven  to  one. 
Barney's  at  once  proceeded  judiciously  to  lay  off 
the  Stable  Money,  and  this  having  been  done  George 
found  that  he  stood  to  win  four  thousand  pounds  to 
nothing.  If  he  had  now  chosen  to  bet  this  sum  against 
the  horse  at  the  then  current  price  of  eight  to  one  it  is 
obvious  that  he  could  have  made  an  absolute  certainty 
of  five  hundred  pounds,  and  the  horse  need  never 
even  have  started.  But  George,  who  would  have 
been  glad  enough  of  such  a  sum,  was  not  the  man 
to  do  this  sort  of  thing.  It  was  against  the  tenets 
of  his  creed.  He  believed,  too,  in  his  horse,  and  had 
enough  of  the  Totteridge  in  him  to  like  a  race  for  a 
race's  sake.  Even  when  beaten,  there  was  enjoy- 
ment to  be  had  out  of  the  imperturbability  with  which 
he  could  take  that  beating,  out  of  a  sense  of  superi- 
ority to  men   not  quite   so  sportsmanlike  as  himself 


38  The  Country  House 

"Come  and  see  the  nag  saddled,"  he  said  to  his 
brother  Gerald. 

In  one  of  the  long  line  of  boxes,  the  Ambler  was 
awaiting  his  toilette,  a  dark-brown  horse,  about  six- 
teen hands,  with  well- placed  shoulders,  straight  hocks, 
a  small  head,  and  what  is  known  as  a  rat-tail.  But 
of  all  his  features,  the  most  remarkable  was  his  eye; 
in  the  depths  of  that  full,  soft  eye  was  an  almost 
uncanny  gleam,  and  when  he  turned  it,  half-circled 
by  a  moon  of  white,  and  gave  bystanders  that  look 
of  strange  comprehension,  they  felt  that  he  saw  to 
the  bottom  of  all  this  that  was  going  on  around  him. 
He  was  still  but  three  years  old,  and  had  not  yet 
attained  the  age  when  people  apply  to  action  the 
fruits  of  understanding;  yet  there  was  little  doubt 
that  as  he  advanced  in  years  he  would  manifest  his 
disapproval  of  a  system  whereby  men  made  money  at 
his  expense.  And  with  that  eye  half- circled  by  the 
moon,  he  looked  at  George,  and  in  silence  George 
looked  back  at  him,  strangely  baffled  by  the  horse's 
long,  soft,  wild  gaze.  On  this  heart  beating  deep 
within  its  warm,  dark  satin  sheath,  on  the  spirit 
gazing  through  that  soft  wild  eye,  too  much  was  hang- 
ing, and  he  turned  away. 

*'  Mount — ^jockeys  1 " 

Through  the  crowd  of  hard-looking,  hatted,  muf- 
fled, two-legged  men,  those  four-legged  creatures  in 
their  chestnut,  bay,  and  brown,  and  satin  naked- 
ness, most  beautiful  in  all  the  world,  filed  proudly 
past,  as  though  going  forth  to  death.  The  last  van- 
ished through  the  gate,  the  crowd  dispersed. 

Down  by  the  rails  of  Tattersall's  George  stood  alone. 
He  had  screwed  himself  into  a  corner,  whence  he  could 
watch  through  his  long  glasses  that  gay- coloured 


The  Happy  Hunting-Ground       39 

shifting  wheel  at  the  end  of  the  mile  and  more  of 
turf.  At  this  moment,  so  pregnant  with  the  future, 
he  could  not  bear  the  company  of  his  fellows. 

"They 're  off!" 

He  looked  no  longer,  but  hunched  his  shoulders 
holding  his  elbows  stiff  that  none  might  see  wlaat  he 
was  feeling.     Behind  him  a  man  said : 

"The  favourite  's  beat.  What  *s  that  in  blue  on 
the  rails?" 

Out  by  himself  on  the  far  rails,  out  by  himself, 
sweeping  along  like  a  home-coming  bird,  was  the 
Ambler.  And  George's  heart  leaped,  as  a  fish  leaps 
of  a  summer  evening  out  of  a  dark  pool. 

"They  '11  never  catch  him.  The  Ambler  wins! 
It  's  a  walkover!    The  Ambler!" 

Silent  amidst  •'..le  shouting  throng,  George  thought: 
"My  horse!  My  honse!"  and  tears  of  pure  emotion 
sprang  into  his  eyes.  For  a  full  minute  he  stood 
quite  still;  then,  instinctively  adjusting  hat  and 
tie,  made  his  way  calmly  to  the  Paddock.  He  left  it 
to  his  trainer  to  lead  the  Ambler  back — and  joined 
him  at  the  weighing-room. 

The  little  jockey  was  seated,  nursing  his  saddle, 
negligent  and  saturnine,  awaiting  the  words:  "All 
right." 

Blacksmith  said  quietly: 

"Well,  sir,  we  've  pulled  it  off.  Four  lengths. 
I  've  told  Swells  he  does  no  more  riding  for  me. 
There  's  a  gold-mine  given  away.  What  on  earth 
was  he  about  to  come  in  by  himself  like  that?  We 
shan't  get  into  the  "City"  now  under  nine  stone. 
It's  enough  to  make  a  man  cry!" 

And,  looking  at  his  trainer,  George  saw  the  little 
man's  lips  quiver. 


40  The  Country  House 

In  his  stall,  streaked  with  sweat,  his  hind  legs  out* 
stretched,  fretting  under  the  ministrations  of  the 
groom,  the  Ambler  stayed  the  whisking  of  his  head 
to  look  at  his  owner,  and  once  more  George  met  that 
long,  proud,  soft  glance.  He  laid  his  gloved  hand  on 
the  horse's  lather-flecked  neck.  The  Ambler  tossed 
his  head  and  turned  it  away. 

George  came  out  into  the  open  and  made  his  way 
towards  the  Stand.  His  trainer's  words  had  in* 
stilled  a  drop  of  poison  into  his  cup.  **A  gold-mine 
given  away!" 

He  went  up  to  Swells.  On  his  lips  were  the  words: 
**What  made  you  give  the  show  away  like  that?*' 
He  did  not  speak  them,  for  in  his  soul  he  felt  it  would 
not  become  him  to  ask  his  jockey  why  he  had  not 
dissembled  and  won  by  a  length.  But  the  little 
jockey  understood  at  once: 

"Mr.  Blacksmith  's  been  at  me,  sir.  You  take  my 
tip :  he  's  a  queer  one,  that  'orse.  I  thought  it  best 
to  let  him  run  his  own  race.  Mark  my  words,  he 
knows  what  's  what.  When  they  're  like  that,  they  're 
best  let  alone!" 

A  voice  behind  him  said : 

"Well,  George — congratulate  you!  Not  the  way 
I  should  have  ridden  the  race  myself.  He  should 
have  lain  off  to  the  distance.  Remarkable  turn  of 
speed,  that  horse.     There  's  no  riding  nowadays!" 

The  Squire  and  General  Pendyce  were  standing 
there.  Erect  and  slim,  unlike  and  yet  so  very  much 
alike,  the  eyes  of  both  of  them  seemed  saying: 

"I  shall  differ  from  you,  there  are  no  two  opinions 
about  it,  I  shall  differ  from  you!" 

Behind  them  stood  Mrs.  Bellew.  Her  eyes  could 
not  keep  still  under  their  lashes,  and  their  light  and 


The  Happy  Hunting-Ground       41 

colour  changed  continually.  George  walked  on  slowly 
at  her  side.  There  was  a  look  of  triumph  and  soft- 
ness about  her;  the  colour  kept  deepening  in  her 
cheeks,  her  figure  swayed.  They  did  not  look  at 
each  other. 

Against  the  Paddock  railings  stood  a  man  in  riding 
clothes,  of  spare  figure,  with  a  horseman's  square, 
high  shoulders,  and  thin  long  legs  a  trifle  bowed. 
His  narrow,  thin-lipped,  freckled  face,  with  close- 
cropped  sandy  hair  a,nd  clipped  red  moustache,  was 
of  a  strange  dead  pallor.  He  followed  the  figures  of 
George  and  his  companion  with  little  fiery  dark-brown 
eyes,  in  which  devils  seemed  to  dance.  Some  one 
tapped  him  on  the  arm: 

"Hallo,  Bellew!     Had  a  good  race?" 

"Devil  take  you,  no!     Come  and  have  a  drink?'* 

Still  without  looking  at  each  other,  George  and 
Mrs.  Bellew  walked  towards  the  gate. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  any  more,"  she  said.  "I 
should  like  to  get  away  at  once." 

"We  *11  go  after  this  race,"  said  George.  "There  's 
nothing  running  in  the  last." 

At  the  back  of  the  Grand  Stand,  in  the  midst  of  all 
the  hurrying  crowd,  he  stopped. 

"Helen?"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Bellew  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  full  into 
his. 

Long  and  cross-country  is  the  drive  from  Roy- 
ston  railway  station  to  Worsted  Skeynes.  To  George 
Pendyce,  driving  the  dog-cart  with  Helen  Bellew 
beside  him,  it  seemed  but  a  minute — that  strange 
minute  when  the  heaven  is  opened,  and  a  vision  shows 
between.  To  some  men  that  vision  comes  but  once. 
to  some  men  many  times.     It  comes  after  long  winter, 


42  The  Country  House 

when  the  blossom  hangs ;  it  comes  after  parched  sum- 
mer, when  the  leaves  are  going  gold ;  and  of  what  hues 
it  is  painted — of  frost — ^white  and  fire,  of  wine  and 
purple,  of  mountain  flowers,  or  the  shadowy  green 
of  still  deep  pools — ^the  seer  alone  can  tell.  But  this 
is  certain — the  vision  steals  from  him  who  looks  on 
it,  all  images  of  other  things,  all  sense  of  law,  of  order, 
of  the  living  past,  and  the  living  present.  It  is 
the  future,  fair-scented,  singing,  jewelled;  as  when 
suddenly  between  high  banks  a  bough  of  apple- 
blossom  hangs  quivering  in  the  wind  loud  with  the 
song  of  bees. 

George  Pendyce  gazed  before  him  at  this  vision 
over  the  grey  mare's  back,  and  she  who  sat  beside 
him  muffled  in  her  fur  was  touching  his  arm  with 
hers.  And,  back  to  them,  the  second  groom  hugging 
himself  above  the  road  that  slipped  away  beneath, 
saw  another  kind  of  vision,  for  he  had  won  five  pounds, 
and  his  eyes  were  closed.  And  the  grey  mare  saw 
a  vision  of  her  warm  light  stall ,  and  the  oats  dropping 
between  her  manger  bars,  and  fled  with  light  hoofs 
along  the  lanes  where  the  side-lamps  shot  two  moving 
gleams  over  dark  beech-hedges  that  rustled  crisply 
in  the  north-east  wind.  Again  and  again  she  sneezed 
in  the  pleasure  of  that  homeward  flight,  and  the 
light  foam  of  her  nostrils  flicked  the  faces  of  those 
behind.  And  they  sat  silent,  thrilling  at  the  touch 
of  each  other's  arms;  their  cheeks  glowing  in  the 
windy  darkness,  their  eyes  shining  and  fixed  before 
them. 

The  second  groom  awoke  suddenly  from  his  dream. 

"If  I  owned  that  'orse  like  Mr.  George,  and  had 
such  a  topper  as  this  'ere  Mrs.  Bellew  beside  me, 
would  I  be  sit  tin'  there  without  a  word?" 


CHAPTER  V 

MRS.  PENDYCE's  DANCB 

MRS.  PENDYCE  believed  in  the  practice  of  assem- 
bling county  society  for  the  purpose  of  in- 
ducing it  to  dance;  a  hardy  enterprise  in  a  county 
where  the  souls,  and  incidentally  the  feet,  of  the 
inhabitants  were  shaped  for  more  solid  pursuits. 
Men  were  her  chief  difficulty,  for  in  spite  of  really 
national  discouragement,  it  was  rare  to  find  a  girl 
who  was  not  "fond  of  dancing." 

"Ah,  dancing;  I  did  so  love  it!  Oh!  poor  Cecil 
Tharp ! "  And  with  a  queer  little  smile  she  pointed  to  a 
strapping,  red- faced  youth  dancing  with  her  daughter. 
"He  nearly  trips  Bee  up  every  minute;  and  he  hugs 
her  so,  as  if  he  were  afraid  of  falling  on  his  head.  Oh, 
dear ! — ^what  a  bump !  It 's  lucky  she  's  so  nice  and 
solid.  I  like  to  see  the  dear  boy.  Here  come  George 
and  Helen  Bellew.  Poor  George  is  not  quite  up 
to  her  form,  but  he  's  better  than  most  of  them. 
Does  n't  she  look  lovely  this  evening?" 

Lady  Maiden  raised  her  glasses  to  her  eyes  by  the 
aid  of  a  tortoise-shell  handle. 

"Yes,  but  she's  one  of  those  women  you  never 
can  look  at  without  seeing  that  she  has  a — a, — ^body. 
She  's  too — ^too — d  'you  see  what  I  mean?  It 's  al- 
most— ^almost  like  a  Frenchwoman! " 

Mrs.  Bellew  had  passed  so  close  that  the  skirt  of 
her  sea-green  dress  brushed  their  feet  with  a  swish, 


44  The  Country  House 

and  a  scent  as  of  a  flower-bed  was  wafted  from  it 
Mrs.  Pendyce  wrinkled  her  nose. 

"Much  nicer.     Her  figure  's  so  delicious,'*  she  said. 

Lady  Maiden  pondered: 

"She's  a  dangerous  woman.  James  quite  agrees 
with  me." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  raised  her  eyebrows;  there  was  a 
touch  of  scorn  in  that  gentle  gesture. 

"She  's  a  very  distant  cousin  of  mine,"  she  said. 
"Her  father  was  quite  a  wonderful  man.  It 's  an  old 
Devonshire  family.  The  Cheritons  of  Bovey  are 
mentioned  in  Twisdom.  I  like  young  people  to 
enjoy  themselves." 

A  smile  illumined  softly  the  fine  wrinkles  round  her 
eyes.  Beneath  her  lavender  satin  bodice,  with  strips 
of  black  velvet  banding  it  at  intervals,  her  heart  was 
beating  faster  than  usual.  She  was  thinking  of  a  night 
in  her  youth,  when  her  old  playfellow,  young  Trefane  of 
the  Blues,  danced  with  her  nearly  all  the  evening ;  and 
of  how  at  her  window  she  saw  the  sun  rise,  and  gently 
wept  because  she  was  married  to  Horace  Pendyce. 

"I  always  feel  sorry  for  a  woman  who  can  dance 
as  she  does.  I  should  like  to  have  gotten  some  men 
from  town,  but  Horace  will  only  have  the  county 
people.  It  's  not  fair  to  the  girls.  It  isn  't  so  much 
their  dancing,  as  their  conversation;  all  about  the 
first  Meet,  and  yesterday's  cubbing,  and  to-morrow's 
covert-shooting,  and  their  fox-terriers  (though  I  *m 
awfully  fond  of  the  dear  dogs)  and  then  that  new 
golf  course.  Really  it  's  quite  distressing  to  me  at 
times."  Again  Mrs,  Pendyce  looked  out  into  the 
room  with  her  patient  smile,  and  two  little  lines  of 
wrinkles  formed  across  her  forehead  between  the 
regular  arching  of  her  eyebrows  that  were  still  daik 


Mrs.  Pendyce's  Dance  45 

brown.  "They  don't  seem  able  to  be  gay.  I  feel  they 
don't  really  care  about  it.  They  're  only  just  wait- 
ing till  to-morrow  morning,  so  that  they  can  go  out 
and  kill  something.     Even  Bee  's  like  that!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  was  not  exaggerating;  the  guests 
at  Worsted  Skeynes  on  the  night  of  the  Rutlandshire 
Handicap  were  nearly  all  county  people,  from  the 
Hon.  Gertrude  Winlow,  revolving  like  a  faintly 
coloured  statue,  to  young  Tharp,  with  his  clean  face, 
and  his  fair  buUety  head,  who  danced  as  though  he 
were  riding  at  a  bullfinch.  In  a  niche  old  Lord 
Quarryman,  the  Master  of  the  Gaddesdon,  could  be 
discerned  in  conversation  with  Sir  James  Maiden  and 
the  Reverend  Hussell  Barter. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  said : 

**  Your  husband  and  Lord  Quarryman  are  talking 
of  poachers ;  I  can  tell  that  by  the  look  of  their  hands. 
I  can't  help  sympathising  a  little  with  poachers." 

Lady  Maiden  dropped  her  eyeglasses. 

"James  takes  a  very  just  view  of  them,"  she  said. 
"It's  such  an  insidious  offence;  the  more  insidious 
the  offence  the  more  important  it  is  to  check  it.  It 
seems  hard  to  punish  people  for  stealing  bread  or 
turnips,  though  one  must  of  course;  but  I  've  no  sym- 
pathy with  poachers.  So  many  of  them  do  it  for 
sheer  love  of  sport!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  answered: 

"That  's  Captain  Maydew  dancing  with  her  now. 
He  is  a  good  dancer.  Don't  their  steps  fit  ?  Don't  they 
look  happy?  I  do  like  people  to  enjoy  themselves! 
There  is  such  a  dreadful  lot  of  unnecessary  sadness 
and  suffering  in  the  world.  I  think  it 's  really  all 
because  people  won't  make  allowances  for  each 
iPJthw." 


46  The  Country  House 

Lady  Maiden  looked  at  her  sideways,  pursing  her 
lips,  but  Mrs.  Pendyce — by  race  a  Totteridge — 
continued  to  smile.  She  had  been  born  unconscious 
of  her  neighbours'  scrutinies. 

"Helen  Bellew,"  she  said,  '*was  such  a  lovely  girl. 
Her  grandfather  was  my  mother's  cousin.  What 
does  that  make  her?  Anyway,  my  cousin,  Gregory 
Vigil,  is  her  first  cousin  once  removed — the  Hamp- 
shire Vigils .     D o  you  know  him  ? ' ' 

Lady  Maiden  answered: 

"Gregory  Vigil?  The  man  with  a  lot  of  greyish 
hair?     I  've  had  to  do  with  him  in  the  S.  R.  W.  C." 

But  Mrs.  Pendyce  was  dancing  mentally. 

"Such  a  good  fellow!     What  is  that— the ■?" 

Lady  Maiden  gave  her  a  sharp  look. 

"Society  for  the  Rescue  of  Women  and  Children, 
of  course.     Surely  you  know  about  that?" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  continued  to  smile. 

"Ah,  yes,  that  is  nice!  What  a  beautiful  figure 
she  has !  It 's  so  refreshing.  I  envy  a  woman  with  a 
figure  like  that;  it  looks  as  if  it  would  never  grow  old. 
'Society  for  the  Regeneration  of  Women?'  Greg- 
ory's so  good  about  that  sort  of  thing.  But  he  never 
seems  quite  successful;  have  you  noticed?  There 
was  a  woman  he  was  very  interested  in,  this  spring. 
I  think  she  drank. ' ' 

"They  all  do,"  said  Lady  Maiden;  "it  's  the  curse 
of  the  day." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  wrinkled  her  forehead. 

"Most  of  the  Totteridges,"  she  said,  "were  great 
drinkers.  They  ruined  their  constitutions.  Do  you 
know  Jaspar  Bellew?" 

"No." 

"It  's  such  a  pity  he  drinks.     He  came  to  dinner 


Mrs.  Pendyce's  Dance  47 

here  once,  and  I  'm  afraid  he  must  have  come  in- 
toxicated. He  took  me  in,  his  little  eyes  qiiite  burned 
me  up.  He  drove  his  dog-cart  into  a  ditch  on  the 
way  home.  That  sort  of  thing  gets  about  so.  It  's 
such  a  pity.  He  's  quite  interesting;  Horace  can't 
stand  him!" 

The  music  of  the  waltz  had  ceased.  Lady  Maiden 
put  her  glasses  to  her  eyes.  From  close  beside  them 
George  and  Mrs.  Bellew  passed  by.  They  moved  on 
out  of  hearing,  but  the  breeze  of  her  fan  had  touched 
the  arching  hair  on  Lady  Maiden's  forehead,  the 
down  on  her  upper  lip. 

"Why  isn't  she  with  her  husband?"  she  asked 
abruptly. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  lifted  her  brows. 

"Do  you  concern  yourself  to  ask  that  which  a  well- 
bred  woman  leaves  unanswered? "  she  seemed  to  say, 
and  a  flush  coloured  her  cheeks. 

Lady  Maiden  winced;  but  as  though  it  were  forced 
through  her  mouth  by  some  explosion  in  her  soul, 
she  said : 

"You  have  only  to  look  and  see  how  dangerous 
she  is !" 

The  colour  in  Mrs.  Pendyce's  cheeks  deepened  to  a 
blush  like  a  girl's. 

"  Every  man,"  she  said,  "  is  in  love  with  Helen  Bel- 
lew.  She's  so  tremenduously  alive.  My  cousin  Greg- 
ory has  been  in  love  with  her  for  years,  though  he  is 
her  guardian  or  trustee,  or  whatever  they  call  them 
now.  It 's  quite  romantic.  If  I  were  a  man  I  should 
be  in  love  with  her  myself."  The  flush  vanished  and 
left  her  cheeks  to  their  true  colour,  that  of  a  faded 
rose. 

Once  more  she  was  listening  to  the  voice  of  young 


48  The  Country  House 

Trefane:  "Ah,  Margery,  I  love  youl" — ^to  her  own 
half- whispered  answer :  "Poor  boy!'*  Once  more  she 
was  looking  back  through  that  forest  of  her  life  where 
she  had  wandered  so  long,  and  where  every  tree  was 
Horace  Pendyce. 

"What  a  pity  one  can't  always  be  young  I"  she 
said. 

Through  the  conservatory  door,  wide  open  to  the 
lawn,  a  full  moon  flooded  the  country  with  pale  gold 
light,  and  in  that  light  the  branches  of  the  cedar- 
trees  seemed  printed  black  on  the  grey-blue  paper 
of  the  sky;  all  was  cold,  still  witchery  out  there,  and 
not  very  far  away  an  owl  was  hooting. 

The  Reverend  Hussell  Barter,  about  to  enter  the 
conservatory  for  a  breath  of  air,  was  arrested  by 
the  sight  of  a  couple  half- hidden  by  a  bushy  plant; 
side  by  side  they  were  looking  at  the  moonlight, 
and  he  knew  them  for  Mrs.  Bellew  and  George 
Pendyce.  Before  he  could  either  enter  or  retire,  he 
saw  George  seize  her  in  his  arms.  She  seemed  to 
bend  her  head  back,  then  bring  her  face  to  his.  The 
moonlight  fell  on  it,  and  on  the  full,  white  curve  of 
her  neck.  The  Rector  of  Worsted  Skeynes  saw,  too, 
that  her  eyes  were  closed,  her  lips  parted. 


CHAPTER  VI 

INFLUENCE  OF  THE  REVEREND  HUSSELL  BARTER. 

ALONG  the  walls  of  the  smoking-room,  above  a 
leather  dado,  were  prints  of  horsemen  in  night- 
shirts and  night-caps,  or  horsemen  in  red  coats  and 
top  hats,  with  words  underneath  such  as : 

"Yeoicks!"  says  Thruster,  "Yeoicks!"  says  Dick; 
"My  word  1  these  d d  Quomites  shall  now  see  the  trick  1" 

Two  pairs  of  antlers  surmounted  the  hearth, 
mementos  of  Mr.  Pendyce's  deer-forest,  Strathbeg- 
ally,  now  given  up,  where  with  the  assistance  of  his 
dear  old  gillie  Angus  McBane,  he  had  secured  the 
heads  of  these  monarchs  of  the  glen.  Between  them 
was  the  print  of  a  personage  in  trousers,  with  a  rifle 
under  his  arm,  and  a  smile  on  his  lips,  while  two  large 
deerhoimds  worried  a  dying  stag,  and  a  lady  ap- 
proached him  on  a  pony. 

The  Squire  and  Sir  James  Maiden  had  retired; 
the  remaining  guests  were  seated  round  the  fire. 
Gerald  Pendyce  stood  at  a  side  table,  on  which  was  a 
tray  of  decanters,  glasses,  and  mineral  water. 

'*  Who  *s  for  a  dhrop  of  the  craythur  ?  A  wee  dhrop 
of  the  craythur?  Rector,  a  dhrop  of  the  craythur? 
George,  a  dhrop ** 

George  shook  his  head.  A  smile  was  on  his  lips, 
and  that  smile  had  in  it  a  quality  of  remoteness,  as 
though  it  belonged  to  another  sphere,  and  had  strayed 
on  to  the  lips  of  this  man  of  the  world  against  his  will. 


50  The  Country  House 

He  seemed  trying  to  conquer  it,  to  twist  his  face  into 
its  habitual  shape;  but,  like  the  spirit  of  a  strange 
force,  the  smile  broke  through.  It  had  mastered 
him,  his  thoughts,  his  habits,  and  his  creed;  he  was 
stripped  of  fashion,  as  on  a  thirsty  noon  a  man  stands 
stripped  for  a  cool  plunge,  from  which  he  hardly  cares 
if  he  come  up  again. 

And  this  smile,  not  by  intrinsic  merit,  but  by  virtue 
of  its  strangeness,  attracted  the  eye  of  each  man  in 
the  room;  so,  in  a  crowd,  the  most  foreign-looking 
face  will  draw  all  glances. 

The  Reverend  Hussell  Barter  with  a  frown  on  his 
face  watched  that  smile,  and  strange  thoughts  chased 
through  his  mind. 

**  Uncle  Charles,  a  dhrop  of  the  craythur^ — ^a  wee 
dhrop  of  the  craythur?" 

General  Pendyce  caressed  his  whisker: 

"The  least  touch,"  he  said,  "the  least  touch!  I 
hear  that  our  friend  Sir  Percival  is  going  to  stand 
again. " 

Mr.  Barter  rose  and  placed  his  back  before  the 
fire. 

"Outrageous!"  he  said.  "He  ought  to  be  told  at 
once  that  we  can't  have  him. " 

The  Hon.  Geoffrey  Winlow  answered  from  his 
chair : 

"If  he  puts  up,  he  '11  get  in;  they  can't  afford  to 
lose  him."  And  with  a  leisurely  puff  of  smoke:  "I 
must  say,  sir,  I  don't  quite  see  what  it  has  to  do  with 
his  public  life!" 

Mr.  Barter  thrust  forth  his  lower  lip. 

"An  impenitent  man,"  he  said. 

"But  a  woman  like  that!  What  chance  has  a  fel- 
low if  she  once  gets  hold  of  him? " 


Influence  of  Rev.  Hussell  Barter    51 

"When  I  was  stationed  at  Halifax,"  began  General 
Pendyce,  "she  was  the  belle  of  the  place " 

Again  Mr.  Barter  thrust  out  his  lower  lip. 

"Don't  let  's  talk  of  her— the  jade!"  Then,  sud- 
denly, to  George:  " Let 's  hear  your  opinion,  George. 
Dreaming  of  your  victories,  eh?"  And  the  tone  of 
his  voice  was  peculiar. 

But  George  got  up. 

"  I  'm  too  sleepy,  "he  said ;  * '  good-night !  *  *  Curtly 
nodding,  he  left  the  room. 

Outside  the  door  stood  a  dark  oak  table  covered 
with  silver  candlesticks;  a  single  candle  burned 
thereon,  and  made  a  thin  gold  path  in  the  velvet 
blackness.  George  lighted  his  candle,  and  a  second 
gold  path  leaped  out  in  front;  up  this  he  began  to 
ascend.  He  carried  his  candle  at  the  level  of  his 
breast,  and  the  light  shone  sideways  and  up  over 
his  white  shirt-front  and  the  comely,  bulldog  face 
above  it.  It  shone,  too,  into  his  eyes,  grey,  and 
slightly  bloodshot,  as  though  their  surfaces  concealed 
passions  violently  struggling  for  expression.  At  the 
turning  platform  of  the  stairs,  he  paused.  In  dark- 
ness above  and  in  darkness  below  the  country  house 
was  still ;  all  the  little  life  of  its  day,  its  petty  sounds, 
movements,  comings,  goings,  its  very  breathing, 
seemed  to  have  fallen  into  sleep.  The  forces  of  its 
life  had  gathered  into  that  pool  of  light  where  George 
stood  listening.  The  beating  of  his  heart  was  the 
only  sound ;  in  that  small  sound  was  all  the  pulse  of 
this  great  slumbering  space.  He  stood  there  long, 
motionless,  listening  to  the  beating  of  his  heart, 
like  a  man  fallen  into  a  trance.  Then  floating  up 
through  the  darkness  came  the  echo  of  a  laugh. 
George  started .     * '  The  d d  parson ! "  he  muttertd. 


52  The  Country  House 

and  turned  up  the  stairs  again ;  but  now  he  moved  like 
a  man  with  a  purpose,  and  held  his  candle  high  so  that 
the  light  fell  far  out  into  the  darkness.  He  went 
beyond  his  own  room,  and  stood  still  again.  The 
light  of  the  candle  showed  the  blood  flushing  his 
forehead,  beating  and  pulsing  in  the  veins  at  the  side 
of  his  temples,  showed,  too,  his  lips  quivering,  his 
shaking  hand.  He  stretched  out  that  hand  and 
touched  the  handle  of  a  door,  then  stood  again  like  a 
man  of  stone,  listening  for  the  laugh.  He  raised  the 
candle,  and  it  shone  into  every  nook;  his  throat 
clicked,  as  though  he  found  it  hard  to  swallow. 

It  was  at  Barnard  Scrolls,  the  next  station  to 
Worsted  Skeynes,  on  the  following  afternoon,  that 
a  young  man  entered  a  first  class  compartment  of 
the  three-ten  train  to  town.  The  young  man  wore 
a  Newmarket  coat,  natty  white  gloves,  and  car- 
ried an  eyeglass.  His  face  was  well- coloured,  his 
chestnut  moustache  well-brushed,  and  his  blue  eyes 
with  their  loving  expression  seemed  to  say:  "Look 
at  me — come,  look  at  me — can  any  one  be  better 
fed?"  His  valise  and  hat-box,  of  the  best  leather, 
bore   the   inscription:     '*E.  Maydew,  8th  Lancers." 

There  was  a  lady  leaning  back  in  a  corner,  wrapped 
to  the  chin  in  a  fur  garment,  and  the  young  man 
encountering  through  his  eyeglass  her  cool,  ironical 
glance,  dropped  it  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Bellew,  great  pleasure  t'  see  you  again 
so  soon.  You  goin'  up  to  town.?  Jolly  dance  last 
night,  wasn't  it?  Dear  old  sort,  the  Squire,  and 
Mrs.  Pendyce  such  an  awf'ly  nice  woman." 

Mrs.  Bellew  took  his  hand,  and  leaned  back  again 
in  her  corner.      She  was  rather  paler  than  usual, 


Influence  of  Rev.  Hussell  Barter    53 

but  it  became  her,  and  Captain  Maydew  thought  he 
had  never  seen  so  charming  a  creature. 

''  Got  a  week's  leave,  thank  goodness.  Most  awf'ly 
slow  time  of  year.  Cubbin's  pretty  well  over  an'  we 
don't  open  till  the  first." 

He  turned  to  the  window.  There  in  the  sunlight 
the  hedgerows  ran  golden  and  brown  away  from  the 
clouds  of  trailing  train  smoke.  Young  Maydew  shook 
his  head  at  their  beauty. 

"The  country  's  still  very  blind,"  he  said.  "Awful 
pity  you  've  given  up  your  huntin'." 

Mrs.  Bellew  did  not  trouble  to  answer,  and  it  was 
just  that  certainty  over  herself,  the  cool  assurance  of  a 
woman  who  has  known  the  world,  her  calm,  almost 
negligent  eyes,  that  fascinated  this  young  man.  He 
looked  at  her  quite  shyly. 

'*I  suppose  you  will  become  my  slave,"  those  eyes 
seemed  to  say,  "but  I  can't  help  you,  really." 

"Did  you  back  George's  horse?  I  had  an  awf'ly 
good  race.  I  was  at  school  with  George.  Charmin* 
fellow,  old  George. " 

In  Mrs.  Bellew's  eyes  something  seemed  to  stir 
down  in  the  depths,  but  young  Maydew  was  looking 
at  his  glove.  The  handle  of  the  carriage  had  left  a 
mark  that  saddened  him. 

"You  know  him  well,  I  suppose,  old  George?" 

"Very  well." 

"Some  fellows,  if  they  have  a  good  thing,  keep  it  so 
jolly  dark.     You  fond  of  racin*,  Mrs.  Bellew?" 

"Passionately." 

"So  am  I!"  And  his  eyes  continued:  "It  *s 
ripping  to  like  what  you  like,"  for,  hypnotised,  they 
could  not  tear  themselves  away  from  that  creamy 
face,    with    its  full    lips    and     the     clear,     faintly 


54  The  Country  House 

smiling    eyes     above     the     high     collar   of   white 
fur. 

At  the  terminus  his  services  were  refused,  and  rather 
crestfallen,  with  his  hat  raised,  he  watched  her  walk 
away.  But  soon,  in  his  cab,  his  face  regained  its 
normal  look,  his  eyes  seemed  saying  to  the  little 
mirror:  **Look  at  me — come,  look  at  me — can 
any  one  be  better  fed ?^* 


CHAPTER  Vn 

SABBATH  AT  WORSTED  SKEYNES 

IN  the  white  morning-room  which  served  for  her 
boudoir  Mrs.  Pendyce  sat  with  an  opened  letter 
in  her  lap.  It  was  her  practice  to  sit  there  on  Sunday- 
mornings  for  an  hour  before  she  went  to  her  room 
adjoining  to  put  on  her  hat  for  church.  It  was  her 
pleasure  during  that  hour  to  do  nothing  but  sit  at  the 
window,  open  if  the  weather  permitted,  and  look  over 
the  home  paddock  and  the  squat  spire  of  the  village 
church  rising  among  a  group  of  elms.  It  is  not  known 
what  she  thought  about  at  those  times,  unless  of 
of  the  countless  Sunday  mornings  she  had  sat  there 
with  her  hands  in  her  lap  waiting  to  be  roused  at  ten- 
forty-five  by  the  Squire's  entrance,  and  his:  "Now, 
my  dear,  you  '11  be  late!"  She  had  sat  there  till 
her  hair,  once  dark-brown,  was  turning  grey;  she 
would  sit  there  till  it  was  white.  One  day  she  would 
sit  there  no  longer,  and,  as  likely  as  not,  Mr.  Pen- 
dyce, still  well-preserved,  would  enter  and  say: 
"Now,  my  dear;  you  '11  be  late!"  having  for  the  mo- 
ment forgotten. 

But  this  was  all  to  be  expected,  nothing  out  of  the 
common ;  the  same  thing  was  happening  in  hundreds 
of  country  houses  throughout  the  "three  kingdoms," 
and  women  were  sitting  waiting  for  their  hair  to  turn 
white,  who,  long  before,  at  the  altar  of  a  fashionable 
church  had  parted  with  their  imaginations  and  all 
the  changes  and  chances  of  this  mortal  life. 

55 


56  The   Country    House 

Round  her  chair  "the  dear  dogs"  lay — ^this  was  their 
practice  too,  and  now  and  again  the  Skye  (he  was 
getting  very  old),  would  put  out  a  long  tongue  and 
lick  her  little  pointed  shoe.  For  Mrs.  Pendyce  had 
been  a  pretty  woman,  and  her  feet  were  as  small  as 
ever. 

Beside  her  on  a  spindley  table  stood  a  china  bowl 
filled  with  dried  rose-leaves,  whereon  had  been  scat- 
tered an  essence  smelling  like  sweet-briar,  whose 
secret  she  had  learned  from  her  mother,  in  the  old 
Warwickshire  home  of  the  Totteridges,  long  since 
sold  to  Mr.  Abraham  Brightman.  Mrs.  Pendyce, 
born  in  the  year  1840,  loved  sweet  perfumes,  and 
was  not  ashamed  of  using  them. 

The  Indian  summer  sun  was  soft  and  bright;  and 
wistful,  soft,  and  bright  were  Mrs.  Pendyce's  eyes, 
fixed  on  the  letter  in  her  lap.  She  turned  it  over  and 
began  to  read  again.  A  wrinkle  visited  her  brow. 
It  was  not  often  that  a  letter  demanding  decision 
or  involving  responsibility  came  to  her  hands  past 
the  kind  and  just  censorship  of  Horace  Pendyce. 
Many  matters  were  under  her  control,  but  were  not, 
so  to  speak,  connected  with  the  outer  world.  Thus 
ran  the  letter: 

"S.  R.W.C.,  Hanover  Square, 
''November  i,  1891. 

"  Dear  Margery, 

"I  want  to  see  you  and  talk  something  over,  so 
I  'm  running  down  on  Sunday  afternoon.  There  is  a 
train  of  sorts.  Any  loft  will  do  for  me  to  sleep  in  if 
your  house  is  full,  as  it  may  be,  I  suppose,  at  this 
time  of  year.  On  second  thoughts,  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  want  to  see  you  about.  You  know,  of  course, 
that  since  her  father  died  I  am  Helen  Bellew's  only 


Sabbath  at  Worsted  Skeynes      57 

guardian.  Her  present  position  is  one  in  which  no 
woman  should  be  placed ;  I  am  convinced  it  ought  to 
be  put  an  end  to.  That  man  Belle w  deserves  no 
consideration.  I  cannot  write  of  him  coolly,  so  I 
won't  write  at  all.  It  is  two  years  now  since  they 
separated,  entirely,  as  I  consider,  through  his  fault. 
The  law  has  placed  her  in  a  cruel  and  helpless  position 
all  this  time;  but  now,  thank  God,  I  believe  we  can 
move  for  a  divorce.  You  know  me  well  enough  to 
realise  what  I  have  gone  through  before  coming  to 
this  conclusion.  Heaven  knows,  if  I  could  hit  on 
some  other  way  in  which  her  future  could  be  safe- 
guarded, I  would  take  it  in  preference  to  this,  which 
is  most  repugnant ;  but  I  cannot.  You  are  the  only 
woman  I  can  rely  on  to  be  interested  in  her ;  and  I 
must  see  Bellew.  Let  not  the  fat  and  just  Benson 
and  his  estimable  horses  be  disturbed  on  my  account ; 
I  will  walk  up  and  carry  my  toothbrush. 

"  Affectionately  your  cousin, 

**  Gregory  Vigil." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  smiled.  She  saw  no  joke,  but  she 
knew  from  the  wording  of  the  last  sentence  that 
Gregory  saw  one,  and  she  liked  to  give  it  a  welcome ; 
so,  smiling  and  wrinkling  her  forehead,  she  mused 
over  the  letter.  Her  thoughts  wandered.  The  last 
scandal — ^Lady  Rose  Bethany's  divorce — ^had  upset 
the  whole  county,  and  even  now  one  had  to  be  careful 
what  one  said.  Horace  would  not  like  the  idea  of 
another  divorce-suit,  and  that  so  close  to  Worsted 
Skeynes.     When  Helen  left  on  Thursday  he  had  said : 

"I  'm  not  sorry  she  *s  gone.  Her  position  is  a 
queer  one.  People  don't  like  it.  The  Maidens  were 
quite " 


58  The  Country  House 

And  Mrs.  Pendyce  remembered  with  a  glow  at  her 
heart  how  she  had  broken  in: 

"  Ellen  Maiden  is  too  hourgeoise  for  anything !  " 

Nor  had  Mr.  Pendyce's  look  of  displeasta*e  effaced 
the  comfort  of  that  word. 

Poor  Horace !  The  children  took  after  him— ex- 
cept George,  who  took  after  her  brother  Hubert. 
The  dear  boy  had  gone  back  to  his  club  on  Friday — 
the  day  after  Helen  and  the  others  went.  She 
wished  he  could  have  stayed.  She  w4shed —  The 
wrinkle  deepened  on  her  brow.  Too  much  London 
was  bad  for  him!  Too  much — !  Her  fancy  fiew  to 
the  London  which  she  saw  now  only  for  three  weeks 
in  June  and  July,  for  the  sake  of  the  girls,  just  when 
her  garden  was  at  its  best — and  when  really  things 
were  such  a  whirl  that  she  never  knew  whether  she 
was  asleep  or  awake.  It  was  not  like  London  at  all — • 
not  like  that  London  under  spring  skies,  or  in  early 
winter  lamplight,  where  all  the  passers-by  seemed 
so  interesting,  living  all  sorts  of  strange  and  eager 
lives,  with  strange  and  eager  pleasures,  running  all 
sorts  of  risks,  hungry  sometimes,  homeless  even — so 
fascinating,  so  unlike — 

"Now,  my  dear,  you  '11  be  late!" 

Mr.  Pendyce,  in  his  Norfolk  jacket,  which  he 
was  on  his  way  to  change  for  a  black  coat,  passed 
through  the  room,  followed  by  the  spaniel  John. 
He  turned  at  the  door,  and  the  spaniel  John  turned 
too. 

"I  hope  to  goodness  Barter  '11  be  short  this  morning. 
I  want  to  talk  to  old  Fox  about  that  new  chaff-cutter." 

Round  their  mistress  the  three  terriers  raised  their 
heads;  the  aged  Skye  gave  forth  a  gentle  growl. 
Mrs.    Pendyce   leaned   over   and   stroked   his   nose. 


Sabbath  at  Worsted  Skeynes       59 

"Roy,    Ro}'-,    how   can   you,    dear?" 

Mr.  Pendyce  said: 

"The  old  dog  's  losing  all  his  teeth — ^he  *11  have  to 
be  put  away." 

His  wife  flushed  painfully. 

"Oh  no,  Horace — oh  no!" 

The  Squire  coughed. 

"We  must  think  of  the  dog!"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  rose,  and  crumpling  the  letter  ner- 
vously, followed  him  from  the  room. 

A  narrow  path  led  through  the  home  paddock 
towards  the  church,  and  along  it  the  household 
were  making  their  v/ay.  The  maids  in  feathers 
hurried  along  guiltily,  by  twos  and  threes;  the  butler 
followed  slowly  by  himself.  A  footman  and  a  groom 
came  next,  leaving  trails  of  pomatum  in  the  air. 
Presently  General  Pendyce,  in  a  high  square- topped 
bowler  hat,  carrying  a  malacca  cane  and  prayer-book, 
appeared,  walking  between  Bee  and  Norah,  also 
carrying  prayer-books,  with  fox-terriers  by  their  sides. 
Lastly,  the  Squire  in  a  high  hat,  six  or  seven  paces  in 
advance  of  his  wife,  in  a  small  velvet  toque. 

The  rooks  had  ceased  their  wheeling  and  their  caw- 
ing; the  five- minutes  bell,  with  its  jerky,  toneless  toll- 
ing, alone  broke  the  Sunday  hush.  An  old  horse,  not 
yet  taken  up  from  grass,  stood  motionless,  resting  a 
hind  leg,  with  his  face  turned  towards  the  footpath. 
Within  the  churchyard  wicket  the  Rector,  firm  and 
square,  a  low- crowned  hat  tilted  up  on  his  bald  fore- 
head, was  talking  to  a  deaf  old  cottager.  He  raised 
his  hat  and  nodded  to  the  ladies;  then,  leaving  his 
remark  unfinished,  disappeared  within  the  vestry. 
At  the  organ  Mrs.  Barter  was  drawing  out  stops 
in  readiness  to  play  her  husbanrl  into  church,  and 


6o  The  Country  House 

her  eyes,  half-shining  and  half-anxious,  were  fixed 
intently  on  the  vestry  door. 

The  Squire  and  Mrs.  Pendyce,  now  almost  abreast, 
came  down  the  aisle  and  took  their  seats  beside  their 
daughters  and  the  General,  in  the  first  pew  on  the 
left.  It  was  high  and  cushioned.  They  knelt  down 
on  tall  red  hassocks.  Mrs.  Pendyce  remained  over  a 
minute  buried  in  thought;  Mr.  Pendyce  rose  sooner, 
and  looking  down  kicked  the  hassock  that  had  been 
put  too  near  the  seat.  Fixing  his  glasses  on  his  nose, 
he  consulted  a  worn  old  Bible,  then  rising,  walked  to 
the  lectern  and  began  to  find  the  Lessons.  The  bell 
ceased;  a  wheezing,  growling  noise  was  heard;  Mrs. 
Barter  had  begun  to  play — ^the  Rector,  in  a  white 
surplice,  was  coming  in.  Mr.  Pendyce,  with  his  back 
turned,  continued  to  find  the  Lessons.  The  service 
began. 

Through  a  plain  glass  window  high  up  in  the  right- 
hand  aisle,  the  sun  shot  a  gleam  athwart  the  Pendyce 's 
pew.  It  found  its  last  resting-place  on  Mrs.  Barter's 
face,  showing  her  soft  crumpled  cheeks  painfully 
flushed,  the  lines  on  her  forehead,  and  those  shining 
eyes,  eager  and  anxious,  travelling  ever  from  her 
husband  to  her  music  and  back  again.  At  the  least 
fold  or  frown  on  his  face  the  music  seemed  to  quiver, 
as  to  some  spasm  in  the  player's  soul.  In  the  Pen- 
dyce's  pew  the  two  girls  sang  loudly  and  with  a 
certain  sweetness.  Mr.  Pendyce,  too,  sang,  and  once 
or  twice  he  looked  in  surprise  at  his  brother,  as  though 
he  were  not  making  a  creditable  noise.  Mrs.  Pen- 
dyce did  not  sing,  but  her  lips  moved,  and  her  eyes 
followed  the  millions  of  little  dust  atoms  dancing  in 
the  long  slanting  sunbeam.  Its  gold  path  canted 
slowly  from  her,  then,  as  by  magic,  vanished.     Mrs. 


Sabbath  at  Worsted  Skeynes      6i 

Pendyce  let  her  eyes  fall.  Something  had  fled  from 
her  soul  with  the  sunbeam — ^her  lips  moved  no 
more. 

The  Squire  sang  two  loud  notes,  spoke  three,  sang 
two  again;  the  Psalms  ceased.  He  left  his  seat,  and 
placing  his  hands  on  the  lectern's  sides,  leaned  forward 
and  began  to  read  the  Lesson.  He  read  the  story 
of  Abraham  and  Lot,  and  of  their  flocks  and  herds, 
and  how  they  could  not  dwell  together,  and  as  he 
read,  hypnotised  by  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  he 
was  thinking: 

"This  Lesson  is  well  read  by  me,  Horace  Pendyce 
— ^I  am  Horace  Pendyce — ^Horace  Pendyce — ^Amen — 
Horace  Pendyce ! " 

And  in  the  first  pew  on  the  left  Mrs.  Pendyce  fixed 
her  eyes  upon  him,  for  this  was  her  habit,  and  she 
thought  how,  when  the  spring  came  again,  she  would 
run  up  to  town,  alone,  and  stay  at  Green's  Hotel, 
where  she  had  always  stayed  with  her  father,  when  a 
girl.  George  had  promised  to  look  after  her,  and 
take  her  round  the  theatres.  And  forgetting  that 
she  had  thought  this  every  autumn  for  the  last  ten 
years,  she  gently  smiled  and  nodded,  Mr.  Pendyce 
said: 

**  *  And  I  will  make  thy  seed  as  the  dust  of  the 
earth :  so  that  if  a  man  can  number  the  dust  of  the 
earth,  then  shall  thy  seed  also  be  numbered.  Arise, 
walk  through  the  land  in  the  length  of  it  and  in  the 
breadth  of  it;  for  I  will  give  it  unto  thee.  Then 
Abram  removed  his  tent,  and  came  and  dwelt  in  the 
plain  of  Mamre,  which  is  in  Hebron,  and  built  there 
an  altar  unto  the  Lord.'  Here  endeth  the  First 
Lesson." 

The  .suji,  reaching  the  secood  window,  again  shot  A 


62  The  Country  House 

gold  pathway  athwart  the  church ;  again  the  millions 
of  dust  atoms  danced,  and  the  service  went  on. 

There  came  a  hush.  The  spaniel  John,  crouched 
close  to  the  ground  outside,  poked  his  long  black 
nose  under  the  churchyard  gate;  the  fox-terriers, 
seated  patient  in  the  grass,  pricked  their  ears.  A 
voice  speaking  on  one  note  broke  the  hush.  The 
spaniel  John  sighed,  the  fox-terriers  dropped  their 
ears,  and  lay  down  heavily  against  each  other.  The 
Rector  had  begun  to  preach.  He  preached  on  fruit- 
fulness;  and  in  the  first  right-hand  pew,  six  of  his 
children  at  once  began  to  fidget.  Mrs.  Barter,  side- 
ways and  unsupported  on  her  seat,  kept  her  starry 
eyes  fixed  on  his  cheek,  a  line  of  perplexity  furrowed 
her  brow.  Now  and  again  she  moved  as  though  her 
back  ached.  The  Rector  quartered  his  congregation 
with  his  gaze,  lest  any  amongst  them  should  incline 
to  sleep.     He  spoke  in  a  loud,  sounding  voice. 

God — ^he  said — ^wished  men  to  be  fruitful,  intended 
them  to  be  fruitful,  commanded  them  to  be  fruitful. 
God — ^he  said — ^made  men,  and  made  the  earth;  he, 
made  man  to  be  fruitful  in  the  earth;  he  made  man 
neither  to  question  nor  answer  nor  argue;  he  made 
him  to  be  fruitful  and  possess  the  land.  As  they  had 
heard  in  that  beautiful  Lesson  this  morning,  God 
had  set  bounds,  the  bounds  of  marriage,  within  which 
man  should  multiply;  within  those  bounds  it  was 
his  duty  to  multiply,  and  that  exceedingly — even  as 
Abraham  multiplied.  In  these  days  dangers,  pitfalls, 
snares  were  ripe;  in  these  days  men  went  about  and 
openly,  unashamedly  advocated  shameful  doctrines. 
Let  them  beware.  It  would  be  his  sacred  duty  to 
exclude  such  men  from  within  the  precincts  of  that 
parish  entrusted  to  his  care  by  God.     In  the  language 


Sabbath  at  Worsted  Skeynes      63 

of  their  greatest  poet,  **Such  men  were  dangerous." 
Dangerous  to  Christianity,  dangerous  to  their  coun- 
try, and  to  national  life.  They  were  not  brought 
into  this  world  to  follow  sinful  inclination,  to  obey 
their  mortal  reason.  God  demanded  sacrifices  of 
men.  Patriotism  demanded  sacrifices  of  men,  it 
demanded  that  they  should  curb  their  inclinations 
and  desires.  It  demanded  of  them  their  first  duty 
as  men  and  Christians,  the  duty  of  being  fruitful 
and  multiplying  in  order  that  they  might  till  this 
fruitful  earth,  not  selfishly,  not  for  themselves  alone. 
It  demanded  of  them  the  duty  of  multiplying  in  or- 
der that  they  and  their  children  might  be  equipped  to 
smite  the  enemies  of  their  Queen  and  country,  and  up- 
hold the  name  of  England  in  whatever  quarrel,  against 
all  who  rashly  sought  to  drag  her  flag  in  the  dust. 

The  Squire  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  his  watch. 
Folding  his  arms  he  coughed,  for  he  was  thinking  of 
the  chaff-cutter.  Beside  him  Mrs.  Pendyce,  with 
her  eyes  on  the  altar,  smiled  as  if  in  sleep.  She  was 
thinking:  "Mill ward's  in  Bond  Street  used  to  have 
lovely  lace.  Perhaps  in  the  spring  I  could —  Or 
there  was  Goblin's,  their  Point  de  Venise " 

Behind  them,  four  rows  back,  an  aged  cottage 
woman,  as  upright  as  a  girl,  sat  with  a  rapt  expression 
on  her  carved  old  face.  She  never  moved,  her  eyes 
seemed  drinking-in  the  movements  of  the  Rector's 
lips,  her  whole  being  seemed  hanging  on  his  words. 
It  is  true  her  dim  eyes  saw  nothing  but  a  blur,  her 
poor  deaf  ears  could  not  hear  one  word,  but  she  sat 
at  the  angle  she  was  used  to,  and  thought  of  nothing 
at  all.  And  perhaps  it  was  better  so;  for  she  was 
near  her  end. 

Outside  the  churchyard,  in  the  sun-warmed  grass, 


64  The  Country  House 

the  fox-terriers  lay  one  against  the  other,  pretending 
to  shiver,  with  their  small  bright  eyes  fixed  on  the 
church  door;  and  the  rubbery  nostrils  of  the  spaniel 
John  worked  ever  busily  beneath  the  wicket  gate. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

GREGORY   VIGIL   PROPOSES 

ABOUT  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  a  tall  man 
walked  up  the  avenue  at  Worsted  Skeynes,  in 
one  hand  carrying  his  hat,  in  the  other  a  small  brown 
bag.  He  stopped  now  and  then  and  took  deep 
breaths,  expanding  the  nostrils  of  his  straight  nose. 
He  had  a  fine  head  with  wings  of  grizzled  hair.  His 
clothes  were  loose,  his  stride  was  springy.  Standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  drive,  taking  those  long  breaths, 
with  his  moist  blue  eyes  upon  the  sky,  he  excited  the 
attention  of  a  robin,  who  ran  out  of  a  rhododendron  to 
see,  and  when  he  had  passed,  began  to  whistle.  Gregory 
Vigil  turned,  and  screwed  up  his  humorous  lips,  and 
except  that  he  was  completely  lacking  in  embonpoint, 
he  had  a  certain  resemblance  to  this  bird,  which  is 
supposed  to  be  peculiarly  British. 

He  asked  for  Mrs.  Pendyce  in  a  high,  light  voice, 
very  pleasant  to  the  ear,  and  was  at  once  shown  to  the 
white  morning-room. 

She  greeted  him  affectionately — ^like  many  women 
who  have  grown  used  to  hearing  from  their  husbands 
the  formula:  ''Ohl  your  people!" — she  had  a  strong 
feeling  for  her  kith  and  kin. 

"You  know.  Grig,"  she  said,  when  her  cousin  was 
seated,  "your  letter  was  rather  disturbing.  Her 
separation  from  Captain  Bellew  has  caused  such  a  lot 
of  talk  about  here.  Yes,  it  's  very  common,  I  know, 
that  sort  of  thing,  but  Horace  is  so — !  All  the 
5  6& 


66  The  Country  House 

Squires  and  parsons  and  county  people  we  get  about 
here  are  just  the  same.  Of  course,  I  'm  very  fond  of 
her,  she  's  so  charming  to  look  at;  but  Gregory,  I 
really  don't  dislike  her  husband.  He  's  a  desperate  sort 
of  person, — I  think  that  's  rather  refreshing;  and  you 
know  I  do  think  she  's  a  little  like  him  in  that!" 

The  blood  rushed  up  into  Gregory  Vigil's  forehead; 
he  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  said: 

"Like  him.?  Like  that  man?  Is  a  rose  like  an 
artichoke?" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  went  on : 

*'I  enjoyed  having  her  here  immensely.  It  's  the 
first  time  she  's  been  here  since  she  left  the  Firs. 
How  long  is  that  ?  Two  years  ?  But  you  know,  Grig, 
the  Maidens  were  quite  upset  about  her.  Do  you 
think  a  divorce  is  really  necessary? " 

Gregory  Vigil  answered:     "I  'm  afraid  it  is." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  met  her  cousin's  gaze  serenely;  if 
an)rthing,  her  brows  were  uplifted  more  than  usual; 
but,  as  at  the  stirring  of  secret  trouble,  her  fingers 
began  to  twine  and  twist.  Before  her  rose  a  vision 
of  George  and  Mrs.  Bellew,  side  by  side.  It  was  a  vague 
maternal  feeling,  an  instinctive  fear.  She  stilled  her 
fingers,  let  her  eyelids  droop,  and  said: 

"Of  course,  dear  Grig,  if  I  can  help  you  in  any 
way — ^Horace  does  so  dislike  anything  to  do  with  the 
papers." 

Gregory  Vigil  drew  in  his  breath. 

"The  papers!"  he  said;  "how  hateful  it  is!  To 
think  that  our  civilisation  should  allow  women  to  be 
cast  to  the  dogs!  Understand,  Margery,  I  *m  thinking 
of  her.  In  this  matter  I  'm  not  capable  of  considering 
anything  else." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  miirmured : 


Gregory  Vigil  Proposes  67 

"Of  course,  dear  Grig;  I  quite  understand." 

"Her  position  is  odious;  a  woman  should  not  have 
to  live  like  that,  exposed  to  every  one's  foul  gossip." 

"But,  dear  Grig,  I  don't  think  she  minds;  sh« 
seemed  to  me  in  such  excellent  spirits." 

Gregory  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair. 

"Nobody  understands  her,"  he  said,  "she  's  so 
plucky!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  stole  a  glance  at  him,  and  a  little 
ironical  smile  flickered  over  her  face. 

"No  one  can  look  at  her  without  seeing  her  spirit. 
But,  Grig,  perhaps  you  don't  quite  understand  hef 
either!" 

Gregory  Vigil  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"I  must  open  the  window  a  moment,"  he  said. 

Again  Mrs.  Pendyce's  fingers  began  twisting,  again 
she  stilled  them. 

"We  were  quite  a  large  party  last  week,  and  now 
there  's  only  Charles.  Even  George  has  gone  back; 
he  '11  be  so  sorry  to  have  missed  you!" 

Gregory  neither  turned  nor  answered,  and  a  wistful 
look  came  into  Mrs.  Pendyce's  face. 

"It  was  so  nice  for  the  dear  boy  to  win  that  race! 
I  'm  afraid  he  bets  rather !  It  's  such  a  comfort  Hor- 
ace does  n't  know." 

Still  Gregory  did  not  speak. 

Mrs.  Pendyce's  face  lost  its  anxious  look,  and 
gained  a  sort  of  gentle  admiration. 

"Dear  Grig,"  she  said,  "where  do  you  go  about 
your  hair — ^it  is  so  nice  and  long  and  wavy!" 

Gregory  turned  v/ith  a  blush. 

"I  've  been  wanting  to  get  it  cut  for  ages.  Do  you 
really  mean,  Margery,  that  your  husband  can't  realise 
the  position  she  's  placed  in?" 


68  The  Country  House  " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  lap. 

"You  see,  Grig,"  she  began,  "she  was  here  a  good 
deal  before  she  left  the  Firs,  and,  of  course,  she  's  re- 
lated to  me — ^though  it  *s  very  distant.  With  those  hor- 
rid cases  you  never  know  what  will  happen.  Horace  is 
certain  to  say  that  she  ought  to  go  back  to  her  husband ; 
or  if  that 's  impossible,  he  *11  say  she  ought  to  think 
of  Society.  Lady  Rose  Bethany's  case  has  shaken 
everybody,  and  Horace  is  nervous.  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  there's  a  great  feeling  amongst  people 
about  here  against  women  asserting  themselves.  You 
should  hear  Mr.  Barter  and  Sir  James  Maiden,  and 
dozens  of  others ;  the  funny  thing  is  that  the  women 
take  their  side.  Of  course  it  seems  odd  to  me,  be- 
cause so  many  of  the  Totteridges  ran  away,  or  did 
something  funny.  I  can't  help  sympathising  with 
her,  but  I  have  to  think  of — of —  In  the  country, 
you  don't  know  how  things  that  people  do,  get  about 
before  they  've  done  them !  There  's  only  that  and 
hunting  to  talk  of!" 

Gregory  Vigil  clutched  at  his  head. 

"Well,  if  this  is  what  chivalry  has  come  to,  thank 
God  I  'm  not  a  Squire!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce 's  eyes  flickered. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  "I've  thought  like  that  so  often." 

Gregory  broke  the  silence. 

"I  can't  help  the  customs  of  the  country.  My 
duty  *s  plain.  There  *s  nobody  else  to  look  after 
her.'* 

Mrs.  Pendyce  sighed,  and  rising  from  her  chair, 
said:  "Very  well,  dear  Grig;  do  let  us  go  and  have 
some  tea." 

Tea  at  Worsted  Skeynes  was  served  in  the  hall  on 
Sundays,  and  was  usually  attended  by  the  Rector 


Gregory  Vigil  Proposes  69 

and  his  wife.  Young  Cecil  Tharp  had  walked  over 
with  his  dog,  which  could  be  heard  whimpering  faintly 
outside  the  front  door. 

General  Pendyce,  with  his  knees  crossed  and  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  pressed  together,  was  leaning  back 
in  his  chair  and  staring  at  the  wall.  The  Squire,  who 
held  his  latest  bird's  egg  in  his  hand,  was  showing  its 
spots  to  the  Rector. 

In  a  comer  by  a  harmonium  on  which  no  one  ever 
played,  Norah  talked  of  the  village  hockey  club  to 
Mrs.  Barter,  who  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  her 
husband.  On  the  other  side  of  the  fire  Bee  and 
young  Tharp,  whose  chairs  seemed  very  close  to- 
gether, spoke  of  their  horses  in  low  tones,  stealing 
shy  glances  at  each  other.  The  light  was  failing, 
the  wood  logs  crackled,  and  now  and  then  over  the 
cosy  hum  of  talk  there  fell  short  drowsy  silences — 
silences  of  sheer  warmth  and  comfort,  like  the  silence 
of  the  spaniel  John  asleep  against  his  master's  boot. 

"Well,"  said  Gregory  softly,  "I  must  go  and  see 
this  man." 

"Is  it  really  necessary,  Grig,  to  see  him  at  all?  I 
mean — if  you  've  made  up  your  mind " 

Gregory  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair: 

"It  's  only  fair,  I  think!"  And  crossing  the  hall 
he  let  himself  out  so  quietly  that  no  one  but  Mrs. 
Pendyce  noticed  he  had  gone. 

An  hour  and  a  half  later,  by  the  railway-station, 
on  the  road  from  the  village  back  to  Worsted 
Skeynes,  Mr.  Pendyce  and  his  daughter  Bee  were 
returning  from  their  Sunday  visit  to  their  old  butler, 
Bigson.     The  Squire  was  talking. 

"He  *s  failing.  Bee;  dear  old  Bigson  *s  failing.  I 
can't  hear  what  he  says — ^he  mumbles  so;    and  he 


70  The  Country  House 

forgets.  Fancy  his  forgetting  that  I  was  at  Oxford. 
But  we  don't  get  servants  like;  him  nowadays.  That 
chap  we  've  got  now  is  a  sleepy  fellow.  Sleepy! 
he  's —  What's  that  in  the  road.?  They  *ve  no 
business  to  be  coming  at  that  pace?  Who  is  it  ?  I 
can't  see." 

Down  the  middle  of  the  dark  road  a  dog-cart  was 
approaching  at  top  speed.  Bee  seized  her  father's  arm 
and  pulled  it  vigorously,  for  Mr.  Pendyce  was  standing 
stock-still  in  disapproval.  The  dog-cart  passed  within 
a  foot  of  him  and  vanished,  swinging  round  into  the 
station.     Mr.  Pendyce  turned  in  his  tracks. 

"Who  was  that?  Disgraceful!  On  Sunday,  too! 
The  fellow  must  be  drunk;  he  nearly  ran  over  my 
legs.     Did  you  see.  Bee — ^he  nearly  ran  over '* 

Bee  answered: 

"It  was  Captain  Bellew,  father;  I  saw  his  face." 

"Bellew?  that  drunken  fellow?  I  shall  summons 
him.     Did  you  see,  Bee — ^he  nearly  ran  over  my " 

" Perhaps  he  's  had  bad  news,"  said  Bee.  "There  *s 
the  train  going  out  now;    I  do  hope  he  caught  it!" 

"Bad  news!  Is  that  an  excuse  for  driving  over  me? 
You  hope  he  caught  it?  I  hope  he  's  thrown  himself 
out.  The  ruffian!  I  hope  he  *s  killed  himself." 
In  this  strain  Mr.  Pendyce  continued  until  they 
reached  the  church.  On  their  way  up  the  aisle  they 
passed  Gregory  Vigil  leaning  forward  with  his  elbows 
on  the  desk,  and  his  hands  covering  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night  a  man  stood  outside 
the  door  of  Mrs.  Bellew's  fiat  in  Chelsea,  violently 
ringing  the  bell.  His  face  was  deathly  white,  but 
his  little  dark  eyes  sparkled.  The  door  was  opened, 
and  Helen  Bellew  in  evening  dress  stood  there  holding 
a  candle  in  her  hand. 


Gregory  Vigil  Proposes  Ji 

"Who  are  you?    What  do  you  want?" 

The  man  moved  into  the  light. 

"Jaspar!     You?     What  on  earth " 

*'I  want  to  talk." 

*'Talk?     Do  you  know  what  time  it  is?" 

"Time — ^there  's  no  such  thing.  You  might  give 
me  a  kiss  after  two  years.  I  've  been  drinking,  but 
I  'm  not  drunk." 

Mrs.  Bellew  did  not  kiss  him,  neither  did  she  draw 
back  her  face.  No  trace  of  alarm  showed  in  her  icy 
grey  eyes.  She  said :  "  If  Ilet  you  in,  will  you  promise 
to  say  what  you  want  to  say  quickly,  and  go  away?" 

The  little  brown  devils  danced  in  Bellew's  eyes. 
He  nodded.  They  stood  by  the  hearth  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  on  both  their  faces  came  and  went  a 
peculiar  smile. 

It  was  difficult  to  contemplate  too  seriously  a 
person  with  whom  one  had  lived  for  years,  with  whom 
one  had  experienced  in  common  the  range  of  human 
passion,  intimacy,  and  estrangement,  who  knew  all 
those  little  daily  things  that  men  and  women  living 
together  know  of  each  other,  and  with  whom  in  the 
end, 'without  hatred,  but  because  of  one's  nature,  one 
has  ceased  to  live.  There  was  nothing  for  either 
of  them  to  find  out,  and  with  a  little  smile,  like  the 
smile  of  knowledge  itself,  Jaspar  Bellew  and  Helen, 
his  wife,  looked  at  each  other. 

"Well, "  she  said  again;  "what  have  you  come  for?" 

Bellew's  face  had  changed.  Its  expression  was 
furtive;  his  mouth  twitched;  a  furrow  had  come  be- 
tween his  eyes. 

"How — ^are — ^you?"  he  said  in  a  thick,  muttering 
voice. 

Mrs.  Bellew*s  clear  voice  answered: 


72  The  Country  House 

"Now,  Jaspar,  what  is  it  that  you  want?" 

The  little  brown  devils  leaped  up  again  in  Jaspar's 
face. 

"You  look  very  pretty  to-night!" 

His  wife's  lips  curled. 

"I  *m  much  the  same  as  I  always  was,"  she  said. 

A  violent  shudder  shook  Bellew.  He  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  floor  a  little  beyond  her  to  the  left;  sud- 
denly he  raised  them.     They  were  quite  lifeless. 

"I  'm  perfectly  sober,  "  he  murmured  thickly;  then 
with  startling  quickness  his  eyes  began  to  sparkle 
again.     He  came  a  step  nearer. 

"You  *re  my  wife!"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Bellew  smiled. 

"Come,"  she  answered,  "you  must  go!"  and  she 
put  out  her  bare  arm  to  push  him  back.  But  Bellew 
recoiled  of  his  own  accord;  his  eyes  were  fixed  again 
on  the  floor  a  little  beyond  her  to  the  left. 

"What  's  that? "  he  stammered.  "What  's  that— 
that  black ?" 

The  deviltry,  mockery,  admiration,  bemusement, 
had  gone  out  of  his  face;  it  was  white  and  calm,  and 
horribly  pathetic. 

"Don't  turn  me  out,"  he  stammered;  "don't  turn 
me  out!" 

Mrs.  Bellew  looked  at  him  hard ;  the  defiance  in  her 
eyes  changed  to  a  sort  of  pity.  She  took  a  quick 
step  and  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"It  's  all  right,  old  boy— all  right!"  she  said. 
"There  's  nothing  there!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

MR.   PARAMOR  DISPOSES 

MRS.  PENDYCE,  who,  in  accordance  with  her 
husband's  wish,  still  occupied  the  same  room 
as  Mr.  Pendyce,  chose  the  ten  minutes  before  he  got 
up  to  break  to  him  Gregory's  decision.  The  moment 
was  auspicious,  for  he  was  only  half  awake. 

"Horace,"  she  said,  and  her  face  looked  young 
and  anxious,  "Grig  says  that  Helen  Bellew  ought  not 
to  go  on  in  her  present  position.  Of  course,  I  told 
him  that  you  *d  be  annoyed,  but  Grig  says  that  she 
can't  go  on  like  this,  that  she  simply  must  divorce 
Captain  Bellew." 

Mr.  Pendyce  was  lying  on  his  back. 

"What  's  that?"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  went  on: 

"  I  knew  it  would  wony  you ;  but  really  " — ^she  fixed 
her  eyes  on  the  ceiling — "I  suppose  we  ought  only  to 
think  of  her." 

The  Squire  sat  up. 

"What  was  that,"  he  said,  "about  Bellew?" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  went  on  in  a  languid  voice  and  with- 
out moving  her  eyes: 

"Don't  be  angrier  than  you  can  help,  dear;  it  is 
so  wearing.  If  Grig  says  she  ought  to  divorce  Cap- 
tain Bellew,  then  I  'm  sure  she  ought. " 

Horace  Pendyce  subsided  on  his  pillow  with  a 
73 


74  '   The  Country  House 

bounce,  and  he  too  lay  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ceiling. 

''Divorce  him!"  he  said — "I  should  think  so!  He 
ought  to  be  hanged,  a  fellow  like  that.  I  told  you 
last  night  he  nearly  drove  over  me.  Living  just  as 
he  likes,  setting  an  example  of  deviltry  to  the  whole 
neighbourhood!  If  I  hadn't  kept  my  head  he  'd 
have  bowled  me  over  like  a  ninepin,  and  Bee  into  the 
bargain.  '* 

Mrs.  Pendyce  sighed. 

"It  was  a  narrow  escape,"  she  said. 

"Divorce  him!"  resumed  Mr.  Pendyce — "I  should 
think  so!  She  ought  to  have  divorced  him  long  ago. 
It  was  the  nearest  thing  in  the  world;  another  foot 
and  I  should  have  been  knocked  off  my  feet !" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  withdrew  her  glance  from  the  ceiling. 

*'At  first, "  she  said,  "I  wondered  whether  it  was 
quite — ^but  I  'm  very  glad  you  've  taken  it  like  this.  " 

"Taken  it!  I  can  tell  you,  Margery,  that  sort  of 
thing  makes  one  think.  All  the  time  Barter  was 
preaching  last  night  I  was  wondering  what  on  earth 
would  have  happened  to  this  estate  if — if — "  And 
he  looked  round  with  a  frown.  "Even  as  it  is,  I 
barely  make  the  two  ends  of  it  meet.  As  to  George, 
he  's  no  more  fit  at  present  to  manage  it  than  you  are ; 
he  'd  make  a  loss  of  thousands." 

"  I  'm  afraid  George  is  too  much  in  London.  That 's 
the  reason  I  wondered  whether — I  'm  afraid  he  sees 
too  much  of " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  stopped ;  a  flush  suffused  her  cheeks ; 
she  had  pinched  herself  violently  beneath  the  bed- 
clothes. 

"George,"  said  Mr.  Pendyce,  pursuing  his  own 
thoughts,  "has  no  gumption.     He  'd  never  manage 


Mr.  Paramor  Disposes  75 

a  man  like  Peacock — ^and  you  encourage  him !  He 
ought  to  marry  and  settle  down." 

Mrs.  Pendyce,  the  flush  dying  in  her  cheeks,  said: 

"George  is  very  like  poor  Hubert. " 

Horace  Pendyce  drew  his  watch  from  beneath  his 
pillow. 

**Ah!"  But  he  refrained  from  adding,  "Your 
people,"  for  Hubert  Totteridge  had  not  been  dead 
a  year.  "Ten  minutes  to  eight!  You  keep  me 
talking  here;  it  *s  time  I  was  in  my  bath. " 

Clad  in  pyjamas  with  a  very  wide  blue  stripe,  grey- 
eyed,  grey-moustached,  slim  and  erect,  he  paused  at 
the  door. 

"The  girls  have  n't  a  scrap  of  imagination.  What 
do  you  think  Bee  said?  *I  hope  he  has  n't  lost  his 
train. '  Lost  his  train !  Good  God !  and  I  might 
have — ^I  might  have — "  The  Squire  did  not  finish 
his  sentence;  no  words  but  what  seemed  to  him 
violent  and  extreme  would  have  fulfilled  his  con- 
ception of  the  danger  he  had  escaped,  and  it  was 
against  his  nature  and  his  training  to  exaggerate 
a  physical  risk. 

At  breakfast  he  was  more  cordial  than  usual  to 
Gregory,  who  was  going  up  by  the  first  train;  for 
as  a  rule  Mr.  Pendyce  rather  distrusted  him,  as  one 
would  a  wife's  cousin,  especially  if  he  had  a  sense 
of  humour. 

"A  very  good  fellow,"  he  was  wont  to  say  of  him, 
"but  an  out-and-out  Radical."  It  was  the  only 
label  he  could  find  for  Gregory's  peculiarities. 

Gregory  departed  without  further  allusion  to  the 
object  of  his  visit.  He  was  driven  to  the  station  in 
a  brougham  by  the  first  groom,  and  sat  with  his  hat 
off  and  his  head  at  the  open  window,  as  if  trying  to 


76  The  Country  House 

get  something  blown  out  of  his  brain.  Indeed, 
throughout  the  whole  of  his  journey  up  to  town 
he  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  expressions  half- 
humorous  and  half-puzzled  played  on  his  face. 
Like  a  panorama  slowly  unrolled,  country  house 
after  country  house,  church  after  church,  appeared 
before  his  eyes  in  the  autumn  sunlight,  among  the 
hedgerows  and  the  coverts  that  were  all  brown  and 
gold;  and  far  away  on  the  rising  uplands,  the  slow 
ploughman  drove,  outlined  against  the  sky. 

He  took  a  cab  from  the  station  to  his  solicitors* 
in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  He  was  shown  into  a  room 
bare  of  all  le^al  accessories,  except  a  series  of  Law 
Reports  and  a  bunch  of  violets  in  a  glass  of  fresh 
water.  Edmund  Paramor,  the  senior  partner  of 
Paramor  and  Herring,  a  clean-shaven  man  of  sixty, 
with  iron-grey  hair  brushed  in  a  cockscomb  off  his 
forehead,  greeted  him  with  a  smile. 

*'Ah,  Vigil,  how  are  you?     Up  from  the  country?'* 

"From  Worsted  Skeynes. " 

"Horace  Pendyce  is  a  client  of  mine.  Well,  what 
can  we  do  for  you?    Your  Society  up  a  tree?" 

Gregory  Vigil,  in  the  padded  leather  chair  that 
had  held  so  many  aspirants  for  comfort,  sat  a  full 
minute  without  speaking,  and  Mr.  Paramor,  too, 
after  one  keen  glance  at  his  client  that  seemed  to 
come  from  very  far  down  in  his  soul,  sat  motionless 
and  grave.  There  was  at  that  moment  something 
a  little  similar  in  the  eyes  of  these  two  very  differ- 
ent men,  a  look  of  kindred  honesty  and  aspiration. 
Gregory  spoke  at  last. 

"It  *s  a  painful  subject  to  me." 

Mr.  Paramor  drew  a  face  on  his  blotting- 
paper. 


Mr.  Paramor  Disposes  ^^ 

"I  have  come, "  went  on  Gregory,  "about  a  divorce 
for  my  ward." 

"Mrs.  Jaspar  Bellew?" 
"Yes.     Her  position  is  intolerable." 
Mr.  Paramor  gave  him  a  searching  look. 
"Let  me  see,  I  think  she  and  her  husband  have 
been  separated  for  some  time." 
"Yes;  for  two  years." 

"You  're  acting  with  her  consent,  of  course?" 
"I  have  spoken  to  her." 
"You  know  the  law  of  divorce,  I  suppose?" 
Gregory  answered  with  a  painful  smile: 
"I'm  not  very  clear  about  it;  I  hardly  ever  look 
at  those  cases  in  the  paper.     I  hate  the  whole  idea." 
Mr.  Paramor  smiled  again,  became  instantly  grave, 
and  said: 

"We  shall  want  evidence  of  certain  things.     Have 
you  got  any  evidence?" 

Gregory  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair. 
"I  don't  think  there  '11  be  any  difficulty,"  he  said. 
"Bellew  agrees — ^they  both  agree!" 
Mr.  Paramor  stared. 
"What  's  that  to  do  with  it?" 
Gregory  caught  him  up. 

"Surely,    where    both    parties   are   anxious,    s^nd 
there  *s  no  opposition,  it  can't  be  difficult." 
"Good  Lord!"  said  Mr.  Paramor. 
"But  I've  seen  Bellew;    saw  him  yesterday.     I  *m 
sure  I  can  get  him  to  admit  anything  you  want!" 
Mr.  Paramor  drew  his  breath  between  his  teeth. 
"Did  you  ever,"  he  said  drily,  "hear  of  what  's 
called  collusion?" 

Gregory  got  up  and  paced  the  room. 

"I  don't  know  th^t  I  've  ever  heard  anything  very 


7^  The  Country  House 

exact  about  the  thing  at  all,"  he  said;  "the  whole 
subject  is  hateful  to  me.  I  regard  marriage  as 
sacred,  and  when,  which  God  forbid,  it  proves  un- 
sacred,  it  is  horrible  to  think  of  these  formalities. 
This  is  a  Christian  country;  we  are  all  flesh  and  blood. 
What  is  this  slime,  Paramor?" 

With  this  outburst  he  sank  again  into  the  chair 
and  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand.  And  oddly,  in- 
stead of  smiling,  Mr.  Paramor  looked  at  him  with 
haunting  eyes. 

"Two  unhappy  persons  must  not  seem  to  agree 
to  be  parted,"  he  said.  *'  One  must  be  believed  to 
desire  to  keep  hold  of  the  other,  and  must  pose  as 
an  injured  person.  There  must  be  evidence  of  mis- 
conduct, and  in  this  case,  of  cruelty,  or  of  desertion. 
The  evidence  must  be  impartial.     This  is  the  law." 

Gregory  said  without  looking  up: 

"But  why?"  • 

Mr.  Paramor  took  his  violets  out  of  the  water,  and 
put  them  to  his  nose. 

"How  do  you  mean — ^why?" 

"I  mean,  why  this  underhand,  roundabout  way? 

Mr.  Paramor 's  face  changed  with  startling  speed 
from  its  haunting  look  back  to  his  smile: 

"  Well, "  he  said,  "  for  the  preservation  of  morality. 
What  do  you  suppose?" 

**  Do  you  call  it  moral  so  to  imprison  people  that 
you  drive  them  to  sin  in  order  to  free  themselves?" 

Mr.  Paramor  obliterated  the  face  on  his  blotting- 
pad. 

"Where  's  your  sense  of  humour?"  he  said. 

"I  see  no  joke,  Paramor." 

Mr.  Paramor  leaned  forward. 

".My  dear  friend,"  he  said  earnestly,  "I  don't  say 


Mr.  Paramor  Disposes  79 

for  a  minute  that  our  system  does  n't  cause  a  great 
deal  of  quite  unnecessary  suffering;  I  don't  say  that 
it  does  n't  need  reform.  Most  lawyers  and  almost 
any  thinking  man  will  tell  you  that  it  does.  But 
that  *s  a  wide  question  which  does  n't  help  us  here. 
We  '11  manage  your  business  for  you,  if  it  can  be  done. 
You  've  made  a  bad  start,  that 's  all.  The  first  thing 
is  for  us  to  write  to  Mrs.  Bellew,  and  ask  her  to  come 
and  see  us.     We  shall  have  to  get  Bellew  watched." 

Gregory  said: 

"That  's  detestable.  Can't  it  be  done  without 
that?" 

Mr.   Paramor  bit  his  forefinger. 

"Not  safe,"  he  said.  "But  don't  bother,  we  '11 
see  to  all  that." 

Gregory  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  He  said 
suddenly : 

"I  can't  bear  this  underhand  work." 

Mr.  Paramor  smiled. 

"Every  honest  man, "he  said,  "feels  as  you  do. 
But,  you  see,  we  must  think  of  the  law." 

Gregory  burst  out  again: 

"Can  no  one  get  a  divorce  then,  without  making 
beasts  or  spies  of  themselves?" 

Mr.  Paramor  said  gravely: 

"It  is  difficult,  perhaps  impossible  You  see,  the 
law  is  based  on  certain  principles." 

"Principles?" 

A  smile  wreathed  Mr.  Paramor's  mouth,  but 
died  instantly. 

"Ecclesiastical  principles.  And  according  to  these 
a  person  desiring  a  divorce  ipso  facto  loses  caste. 
That  they  should  have  to  make  spies  or  beasts  of 
themselves  is  not  of  grave  importance. " 


8o  The  Country  House 

Gregory  came  back  to  the  table  and  again  buried 
his  head  in  his  hands. 

** Don't  joke,  please,  Paramor, "  he  said;  "it  's  all 
so  painful  to  me." 

Mr.  Paramor's  eyes  haunted  his  client's  bowed 
head. 

"I  'm  not  joking,"  he  said.  "God  forbid!  Do  you 
read  poetry?"  And  opening  a  drawer  he  took  out 
a  book  bound  in  red  leather.  "This  is  a  man  I  *m 
fond  of: 

•'  'Life  is  mostly  froth  and  bubble, 
Two  things  stand  like  stone — 
KINDNESS  in  another's  trouble 
COURAGE  in  your  own.* 

That  seems  to  me  the  sum  of  all  philosophy.  ** 

"Paramor, "  said  Gregory,  "my  ward  is  very  dear 
to  me;  she  is  dearer  to  me  than  any  woman  I  know. 
I  am  here  in  a  most  dreadful  dilemma.  On  the  one 
hand  there  is  this  horrible  underhand  business,  with 
all  its  publicity ;  and  on  the  other  there  is  her  position 
— a.  beautiful  woman  fond  of  gaiety,  living  alone  in 
this  London  where  every  man's  instincts  and  every 
woman's  tongue  look  upon  her  as  fair  game.  It 
has  been  brought  home  to  me  only  too  painfully  of 
late.  God  forgive  me!  I  have  even  advised  her  to 
go  back  to  Bellew,  but  that  seems  out  of  the  question. 
What  am  I  to  do?" 
Mr.  Paramor  rose. 

"I  know — "  he  said,  "I  know — ^my  dear  friend, 
I  know!"  And  for  a  full  minute  he  remained  mo- 
tionless, a  little  turned  from  Gregory.  "It  will  be 
better,"  he  said  suddenly,  "for  her  to  get  rid  of  him. 
I  '11  go  and  see  her  myself — ^we  '11  spare  her  ftH  w^ 


Mr.  Paramor  Disposes  8i 

can.  I'll  go  this  afternoon,  and  let  you  know  the 
result. " 

As  though  by  mutual  instinct,  they  put  out  their 
hands,  which  they  shook  with  averted  faces.  Then 
Gregory,  seizing  his  hat,  strode  out  of  the  room. 

He  went  straight  to  the  rooms  of  his  Society  in 
Hanover  Square.  They  were  on  the  top  floor,  higher 
than  the  rooms  of  any  other  Society  in  the  building 
— so  high,  in  fact,  that  from  their  windows,  which 
began  five  feet  up,  you  could  practically  only  see 
the  sky. 

A  girl  with  sloping  shoulders,  red  cheeks,  and  dark 
eyes,  was  working  a  typewriter  in  a  comer,  and 
sideways  to  the  sky  at  a  bureau  littered  with  ad- 
dressed envelopes,  unanswered  letters,  and  copies 
of  the  Society's  publications,  was  seated  a  grey-haired 
lady  with  a  long,  thin,  weather-beaten  face  and 
glowing  eyes,  who  was  frowning  at  a  page  of  manu- 
script. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vigil,"  she  said,  "I  *m  so  glad  you  've 
come.  This  paragraph  must  n't  go  as  it  is.  It  will 
never   do." 

Gregory  took  the  manuscript  and  read  the  para- 
graph in  question. 

"This  case  of  Eva  Nevill  is  so  horrible  that  we  ask 
those  of  our  women  readers  who  live  in  the  security, 
luxury  perhaps,  peace  certainly,  of  their  cotmtry 
homes,  what  they  would  have  done,  finding  them- 
selves suddenly  in  the  position  of  this  poor  girl — 
in  a  great  city,  without  friends,  without  money, 
almost  without  clothes,  and  exposed  to  all  the  craft 
of  one  of  those  fiends  in  human  form  who  prey  upon 
our  womenkind.  Let  each  one  ask  herself*  Would 
I  have  resisted  where  she  f<*U?" 


82  The  Country  House 

"It  will  never  do  to  send  that  out,"  said  the  lady 
again. 

**What  is  the  matter  with  it,   Mrs.   Shortman?" 

**It  *s  too  personal.  Think  of  Lady  Maiden,  or 
most  of  our  subscribers.  You  can't  expect  them  to 
imagine  themselves  like  poor  Eva.  I  'm  sure  they 
won't  like  it." 

Gregory  clutched  at  his  hair. 

"Is  it  possible  they  can't  stand  that?"  he  said. 

"It  's  only  because  you  've  given  such  horrible 
details  of  poor  Eva. " 

Gregory  got  up  and  paced  the  room. 

Mrs.  Shortman  went  on: 

"You  've  not  lived  in  the  country  for  so  long, 
Mr.  Vigil,  that  you  don't  remember.  You  see — 
I  know.  People  don't  like  to  be  harrowed.  Besides, 
think  how  difficult  it  is  for  them  to  imagine  them- 
selves in  such  a  position.  It  '11  only  shock  them,  and 
do  our  circulation  harm." 

Gregory  snatched  up  the  page  and  handed  it  to 
the  girl  who  sat  at  the  typewriter  in  the  corner. 

"Read  that,  please.  Miss  Mallow." 

The  girl  read  without  raising  her  eyes. 

"Well,  is  it  what  Mrs.  Shortman  says?" 

The  girl  handed  it  back  with  a  blush. 

"It  's  perfect,  of  course,  in  itself,  but  I  think  Mrs. 
Shortman  is  right.     It  might  offend  some  people." 

Gregory  went  quickly  to  the  window,  threw  it  up, 
and  stood  gazing  at  the  sky.  Both  women  looked 
at  his  back. 

Mrs.  Shortman  said  gently: 

"I  would  only  just  alter  it  like  this — ^from  after 
*  country  homes':  'whether  they  do  not  pity  and 
forgive  this  poor  girl  in  a  great  city  without  friends, 


Mr.  Paramor  Disposes  83 

without  money,  almost  without  clothes,  and  exposed 
to  all  the  craft  of  one  of  those  fiends  in  human  form 
who  prey  upon  our  womankind,'  and  just  stop  there. " 

Gregory  returned  to  the  table. 

"Not  'forgive,'"  he  said,  ''not  'forgive'!'* 

Mrs.  Shortman  raised  her  pen. 

"You  don't  know,"  she  said,  "what  a  strong 
feeling  there  is.  Mind,  it  has  to  go  to  numbers  of 
parsonages,  Mr.  Vigil.  Our  principle  has  always  been 
to  be  very  careful.  And  you  have  been  plainer  than 
usual  in  stating  the  case.  It  's  not  as  if  they  really 
could  put  themselves  in  her  position,  that 's  impossible. 
Not  one  woman  in  a  hundred  could,  especially  among 
those  who  live  in  the  country  and  have  never  seen 
life.     I'm  a  Squire's  daughter  myself." 

"And  I  a  parson's,"  said  Gregory  with  a  smile. 

Mrs.  Shortman  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Joking  apart,  Mr.  Vigil,  it 's  touch  and  go  with 
our  paper  as  it  is;  we  really  can't  afford  it.  I  've 
had  lots  of  letters  lately  complaining  that  we  put 
the  cases  unnecessarily  strongly.     Here  's  one. 

"  'BOURNEFIELD  ReCTORY, 

*'  *  November  i. 
**  '  Dear  Madam, 

"  *  While  sympathising  with  your  good  work. 
I  am  afraid  I  cannot  become  a  subscriber  to  your 
paper  while  it  takes  its  present  form,  as  I  do  not 
feel  that  it  is  always  fit  reading  for  my  girls.  I  can- 
not think  it  either  wise  or  right  that  they  should 
become  acquainted  with  such  dreadful  aspects  of 
life,  however  true  they  may  be. 

"  *  I  am,  dear  Madam, 

"  *  Respectfully  yours, 

"  '  Winifred  Tuddenham. 


84  The  Country  House 

"  *  P.S.  I  could  never  feel  sure,  too,  that  my 
maids  would  not  pick  it  up,  and  perhaps  take  harm.  * 
I  had  that  only  this  morning." 

Gregory  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  sitting 
thus  he  looked  so  like  a  man  praying,  that  no  one 
spoke.     When  he  raised  his  face,  it  was  to  say: 

"Not  'forgive',  Mrs.  Shortman,  not  'forgive*  !" 

Mrs.   Shortman  ran  her  pen  through  the  word. 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Vigil,"  she  said,  "it  's  a  risk." 

The  sound  of  the  typewriter,  which  had  been 
hushed,  began  again  from  the  corner. 

"That  case  of  drink,  Mr.  Vigil — ^Millicent  Porter — 
I  'm  afraid  there  's  very  little  hope  there. " 

Gregory  asked: 
"What  now?" 

"Relapsed  again — it  's  the  fifth  time." 

Gregory  turned  his  face  to  the  window,  and  looked 
at  the  sky. 

"I  must  go  and  see  her,  just  give  me  her  address." 

Mrs.  Shortman  read  from  a  green  book: 

"Mrs.  Porter,  2  Bilcock  Buildings,  Bloomsbury." 

"Mr.  Vigil!" 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  Vigil,  I  do  sometimes  wish  you  would  not 
persevere  so  long  with  those  hopeless  cases;  they 
never  seem  to  come  to  anything,  and  your  time  is 
so  valuable." 

"  How  can  I  give  them  up,  Mrs.  Shortman?  There 's 
no  choice." 

"But,  Mr.  Vigil,  why  is  there  no  choice?  You  must 
draw  the  line  somewhere.  Do  forgive  me  for  saying 
that  I  think  you  sometimes  waste  your  time!" 

Gregory  turned  to  the  girl  at  the  typewriter. 


Mr.  Paramor  Disposes  85 

"Miss  Mallow,  is  Mrs.  Shortman  right?  Do  I 
waste  my  time?" 

The  girl  at  the  typewriter  blushed  vividly,  and 
without  looking  round,  said: 

**  How  can  I  tell,  Mr.  Vigil?   But  it  does  worry  one. " 

A  humorous  and  perplexed  smile  passed  over 
Gregory's  lips. 

"Now  I  know  I  shall  cure  her,"  he  said.  "2  Bil- 
cock  Buildings."  And  he  continued  to  look  at  the 
sky.     "How  's  your  neuralgia,  Mrs.  Shortman?" 

Mrs.  Shortman  smiled. 

"Awful!" 

Gregory  turned  quickly. 

"You  feel  that  window,  then;  I  'm  so  sorry." 

Mrs.  Shortman  shook  her  head. 

"No,  but  perhaps  Molly  does." 

The  girl  at  the  typewriter  said: 

"Oh,  no;  please,  Mr.  Vigil,  don't  shut  it  for  me." 

"Truth  and  honour?" 

"Truth  and  honour!"  replied  both  women.  And 
all  three  for  a  moment  sat  looking  at  the  sky.  Then 
Mrs.  Shortman  said: 

"You  see,  you  can't  get  at  the  root  of  the  evil — 
that  husband  of  hers. " 

Gregory  turned. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "that  man!  If  she  could  only  get 
rid  of  him!  That  ought  to  have  been  done  long 
ago,  before  he  drove  her  to  drink  like  this.  Why 
did  n't  she,  Mrs.  Shortman,  why  did  n't  she?" 

Mrs.  Shortman  raised  her  eyes,  which  had  such  a 
peculiar,  spiritual  glow. 

"I  don't  suppose  she  had  the  money,"  she  said; 
"and  she  must  have  been  such  a  nice  woman  then. 
A  nice  woman  does  n't  like  to  divorce " 


86  The  Country  House 

Gregory  looked  at  her. 

"What,  Mrs.  Shortman,  you  too,  you  too  among 
the  Pharisees?" 

Mrs.  Shortman  flushed. 

"She  wanted  to  save  him,"  she  said;  "she  must 
have  wanted  to  save  him." 

"Then  you  and  I "    But  Gregory  did  not  finish, 

and  turned  again  to  the  window.  Mrs.  Shortman, 
too,  biting  her  lips,  looked  anxiously  at  the  sky. 

Miss  Mallow  at  the  typewriter,  with  a  scared  face, 
plied  her  fingers  faster  than  ever. 

Gregory  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"You  must  please  forgive  me,"  he  said  gently. 
"A  personal  matter — ^I  forgot  myself." 

Mrs.  Shortman  withdrew  her  gaze  from  the  sky^ 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vigil,  if  I  had  known " 

Gregory  smiled. 

"Don't — don't!"  he  said;  "  we  Ve  quite  frightened 
poor  Miss  Mallow!" 

Miss  Mallow  looked  round  at  him,  he  looked  at 
her ;  and  all  three  once  more  looked  at  the  sky.  It  was 
the  chief  recreation  of  this  little  Society. 

Gregory  worked  till  nearly  three,  and  walked  out 
to  a  bun- shop,  where  he  had  a  lunch  of  a  piece  of  cake 
and  a  cup  of  coffee.  He  took  an  omnibus,  and  getting 
on  the  top,  was  driven  West  with  a  smile  on  his  face, 
and  his  hat  in  his  hand.  He  was  thinking  of  Helen 
Bellew.  It  had  become  a  habit  with  him  to  think 
of  her,  the  best  and  most  beautiful  of  her  sex;  a 
habit  in  which  he  was  growing  grey,  and  with  which, 
therefore,  he  could  not  part.  And  those  women  who 
saw  him  with  his  uncovered  head  smiled  and  thought : 

"What  a  fine-looking  man!" 

But  George  Pendyce,  who  saw  him  from  the  win- 


Mr.  Paramor  Disposes  Sy 

dow  of  the  Stoics'  Club,  smiled  a  different  smile; 
the  sight  of  him,  was  always  a  little  unpleasant  to 
George. 

Nature,  who  had  made  Gregory  Vigil  a  man,  had 
long  found  that  he  had  got  out  of  her  hands,  and  was 
living  in  celibacy,  deprived  of  the  comfort  of  woman, 
even  of  those  poor  creatures  whom  he  befriended; 
and  Nature,  who  cannot  bear  that  man  should  escape 
her  control,  avenged  herself  through  his  nerves  and  a 
habit  of  blood  to  the  head.  Extravagance — she  said 
— ^I  cannot  have,  and  when  I  made  this  man,  I  made 
him  quite  extravagant  enough.  For  his  temperament 
(not  uncommon  in  a  misty  climate),  had  been  bom 
seven  feet  high;  and,  as  a  man  cannot  add  a  cubit  to 
his  stature,  so  neither  can  he  take  one  off.  Gregory 
could  not  bear  that  a  yellow  man  must  always  remain 
a  yellow  man,  but  trusted  by  care  and  attention, 
some  day  to  see  him  white.  There  lives  no  mortal 
that  has  not  a  philosophy  as  distinct  from  every  other 
mortal's,  as  his  face  is  different  from  their  faces;  but 
Gregory  believed  that  philosophers  unfortunately  alien 
must  gain  in  time  a  likeness  to  himself,  if  he  were 
careful  to  tell  them  often  that  they  had  been  mistaken. 
There  were  other  men  in  this  Great  Britain  that  had 
the  same  belief. 

To  Gregory's  reforming  instinct  it  was  a  constant 
grief  that  he  had  been  bom  refined.  A  natural 
delicacy  would  interfere  and  mar  his  noblest  efforts. 
Hence  failures  deplored  by  Mrs.  Pendyce  to  Lady 
Maiden  the  night  they  had  danced  at  Worsted  Skeynes. 

He  left  his  'bus  near  the  flat  where  Mrs.  Bellew 
lived ;  with  reverence  he  made  the  tour  of  the  building 
and  back  again.  He  had  long  fixed  a  rule,  which  he 
never  broke,  of  seeing  her  only  once  a  fortnight ;  but, 


88  The  Country  House 

to  pass  her  windows  he  went  out  of  his  way  inoSt 
days  and  nights.  And  having  made  this  tour,  not 
conscious  of  having  done  anything  ridiculous,  still 
smiling,  and  with  his  hat  on  his  knee,  perhaps  really 
happier  because  he  had  not  seen  her,  was  driven  East, 
once  more  passing  George  Pendyce  in  the  bow- window 
of  the  Stoics'  Club;  and  once  more  raising  on  his  face 
a  jeering  smile. 

He  had  been  back  at  his  rooms  in  Buckingham 
Street  half  an  hour  when  a  Club  commissionaire 
arrived  with  Mr.  Paramor's  promised  letter. 

He  opened  it  hastily. 

"The  Nelson  Club, 
"Trafalgar  Square. 
*'My  dear  Vigil, 

**I  *ve  just  come  from  seeing  your  ward. 
An  embarrassing  complexion  is  lent  to  affairs  by 
what  took  place  last  night.  It  appears  that  after 
your  visit  to  him  yesterday  afternoon,  her  husband 
came  up  to  town,  and  made  his  appearance  at  her 
flat  about  eleven  o'clock.  He  was  in  a  condition 
bordering  on  delirium  tremens,  and  Mrs.  Belle w 
was  obliged  to  keep  him  for  the  night.  '  I  could 
not,'  she  said  to  me,  'have  refused  a  dog  in  such 
a  state.*  The  visit  lasted  until  this  afternoon — in 
fact,  and  the  man  had  only  just  gone  when  I  ar- 
rived. It  is  a  piece  of  irony,  of  which  I  must  explain 
to  you  the  importance.  I  think  I  told  you  that  the 
law  of  divorce  is  based  on  certain  principles.  One 
of  these  excludes  any  forgiveness  of  offences  by  the 
party  moving  for  a  divorce.  In  technical  language 
any  such  forgiveness  or  overlooking  is  called  con- 
donation, and  it  is  a  complete  bar  to  further  action 
for  the  time  being.     The  Court  is  very  jealous  of 


Mr.  Paramor  Disposes  89 

this  principle  of  non- forgiveness,  and  will  regard  with 

grave  suspicion  any  condtict  on  the  part  of  the  offended 

party  which  might  be  construed   as  amounting  to 

condonation.     I  fear  that  what  your  ward  tells  me 

will  make  it  altogether  inadvisable  to  apply  for  a 

divorce  on  any  evidence  that  may  lie  in  the  past.     It 

is  too  dangerous.     In  other  words,  the  Court  would 

almost    certainly   consider   that    she   has    condoned 

offences  so  far.     Any  further  offence,  however,  will 

in  technical  language  'revive'  the  past,  and  under 

these  circumstances,  though  nothing  can  be  done  at 

present,  there  may  be  hope  in  the  future.      After 

seeing  your  ward  I  quite  appreciate  your  anxiety  in 

the  matter ;  though  I  am  hy  no  means  sure  that  you 

are  right  in  advising  this  divorce.     If  you  remain 

in  the  same  mind,  however,  I  will  give  the  matter 

my  best  personal  attention,  and  my  counsel  to  you 

is,  not  to  worry.     This  is  no  matter  for  a  layman ; 

especially  not  for  one  who,  like  you,  judges  of  things 

rather  as  they  ought  to  be,  than  as  they  are. 

"I  am,  my  dear  Vigil, 

"Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  Edmund  Paramor. 
"Gregory  Vigil,  Esq. 

"If  you  want  to  see  me,  I  shall  be  at  my  club  all 
the  evening.     E.  P." 

When  Gregory  had  read  this  note  he  walked  to 
the  window  and  stood  looking  out  over  the  lights 
on  the  river.  His  heart  beat  furiously,  his  temples 
were  crimson.  He  went  down-stairs,  and  took  a 
cab  to  the  Nelson  Club. 

Mr.  Paramor,  who  was  about  to  dine,  invited  his 
visitor  to  join  him. 


90  The  Country  House 

Gregory  shook  his  head. 

**No,  thanks,"  he  said,  "I  don't  feel  like  dining. 
What  is  this,  Paramor?  Surely  there  's  some  mistake. 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  because  she  acted  like 
a  Christian  to  that  man,  she  is  to  be  punished  for  it 
in  this  way?" 

Mr.  Paramor  bit  his  finger. 

**  Don't  confuse  yourself  by  dragging  in  Christianity. 
Christianity  has  nothing  to  do  with  law." 

*'You  talked  of  principles,"  said  Gregory;  "ecclesi- 
astical  " 

"Yes,  yes;  I  meant  principles  imported  from  the 
old  ecclesiastical  conception  of  marriage,  which  held 
man  and  wife  to  be  undivorceable.  That  conception 
has  been  abandoned  by  the  law,  but  the  principles 
still  haunt " 

**I  don't  understand." 

Mr.  Paramor  said  slowly: 

"I  don't  know  that  anyone  does.  It's  our  usual 
muddle.  But  I  know  this,  Vigil,  in  such  a  case  as 
your  ward's,  we  must  tread  very  carefully.  We 
must  *  save  face, '  as  the  Chinese  say.  We  must  pre- 
tend we  don't  want  to  bring  this  divorce,  but  that 
we  have  been  so  injured  that  we  are  obliged  to  come 
forward.  If  Bellew  says  nothing,  the  Judge  will  have 
to  take  what  's  put  before  him.  But  there  's  always 
the  King's  Proctor.  I  don't  know  if  you  know  any- 
thing about  him?" 

"No,"  said  Gregory,  "I  don't." 

"Well,  if  he  can  find  out  anything  against  our 
getting  this  divorce,  he  will.  It  is  not  my  habit  to 
go  into  Court  with  a  case  in  which  anybody  can  find 
out  anything. " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say " 


Mr.  Paramor  Disposes  91 

*'I  mean  to  say  that  she  must  not  ask  for  a  divorce 
nierely  because  she  is  miserable,  or  placed  in  a  po- 
sition that  no  woman  should  be  placed  in,  but  only 
if  she  has  been  offended  in  certain  technical  ways; 
and  if,  by  condonation  for  instance,  she  has  given 
the  Court  technical  reason  for  refusing  her  a  divorce, 
that  divorce  will  be  refused  her.  To  get  a  divorce, 
Vigil,  you  must  be  as  hard  as  nails  and  as  wary  as  a 
cat.     Now,  do  you  understand?" 

Gregory  did  not  answer. 

Mr.  Paramor  looked  searchingly  and  rather  pity- 
ingly in  his  face. 

"  It  won't  do  to  go  for  it  at  present, "  he  said.  "Are 
you  still  set  on  this  divorce?  I  told  you  in  my  letter 
that  I  am  not  sure  you  are  right. " 

"How  caii  you  ask  me,  Paramor,  after  that  man*s 
conduct  last  night?     I  am  more  than  ever  set  on  it!" 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Paramor,  "we  must  keep  a 
sharp  eye  on  Bellew  and  hope  for  the  best. " 

Gregory  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  spoke  of  morality,"  he  said;  "I  can't  tell 
you  how  inexpressibly  mean  the  whole  thing  seems 
to  me.     Good-night!" 

And  turning  rather  quickly,  he  went  out. 

His  mind  was  confused  and  his  heart  torn.  He 
thought  of  Helen  Bellew  as  of  the  woman  dearest  to 
him,  in  the  coils  of  a  great  slimy  serpent,  and  the 
knowledge  that  each  man  and  woman  unhappily 
married  was,  whether  by  his  own,  or  partner's,  or 
by  no  fault  at  all,  in  the  same  embrace,  afforded  him 
no  comfort  whatsoever.  It  was  long  before  he  left 
the  windy  streets  to  go  to  his  home. 


CHAPTER  X 

AT  BLAFARD's 

THERE  comes  now  and  then  to  the  surface  of 
our  modern  civilisation  one  of  those  great  and 
good  men  who — ^unconscious,  like  all  great  and  good 
men,  of  the  goodness  and  greatness  of  their  work — • 
leave  behind  a  lasting  memorial  of  themselves  before 
they  go  bankrupt. 

It  was  so  with  the  founder  of  the  Stoics*  Club. 

He  came  to  the  surface  in  the  year  187-,  with  no- 
thing in  the  world  but  his  clothes,  and  an  idea.  In 
a  single  year  he  had  floated  the  Stocis'  Club,  made  ten 
thousand  pounds,  lost  more,  and  gone  down  again. 

The  Stoics*  Club  lived  after  him,  by  reason  of  the 
immortal  beauty  of  his  idea.  In  189 1,  it  was  a  strong 
and  corporate  body,  not  perhaps  quite  so  exclusive 
as  it  had  been,  but  on  the  whole,  as  smart  and  aris- 
tocratic as  any  club  in  London,  with  the  exception 
of  that  one  or  two  into  which  nobody  ever  got.  The 
idea  with  which  its  founder  had  underpinned  the 
edifice  was  like  all  great  ideas,  simple,  permanent, 
and  perfect;  so  simple,  permanent,  and  perfect  that 
it  seemed  amazing  no  one  had  ever  thought  of  it 
before.  It  was  embodied  in  No.  i  of  the  member's 
rules: 

"  No  member  of  this  club  shall  have  any  occupation 
whatsoever. " 

Hence  the  name  of  a  club  renowned  throughout 
London  for  the  excellence  of  its  wines  and  cuisine. 
—  a* 


At  Blafard's  95 

Its  situation  was  in  Piccadilly  fronting  the  Green 
Park,  and  through  the  many  windows  of  its  ground- 
floor  smoking-room  the  public  were  privileged  to  see 
at  all  hours  of  the  day,  numbers  of  Stoics  in  variou 
attitudes,  reading  the  daily  papers,  or  gazing  out  of 
the  window. 

Some  of  them,  who  did  not  direct  companies,  raised 
fruit,  or  owned  yachts,  wrote  a  book,  or  took  an  interest 
in  a  theatre.  The  greater  part  eked  out  existence  by 
racing  horses,  hunting  foxes,  and  shooting  birds. 
Individuals  among  them,  however,  had  been  known 
to  play  the  piano,  and  take  up  the  Roman  Catholic 
religion.  Many  explored  the  same  spots  of  the  Con- 
tinent year  after  year  at  stated  seasons.  Some 
belonged  to  the  Yeomanry;  others  called  themselves 
barristers;  once  in  a  way  one  painted  a  picture  or 
devoted  himself  to  good  works.  They  were,  in  fact, 
of  all  sorts  and  temperaments,  but  their  common 
characteristic  was  an  independent  income,  often 
so  settled  by  Providence  that  they  could  not  in  any 
way  get  rid  of  it. 

But  though  the  principle  of  no  occupation  over- 
ruled all  class  distinctions,  the  Stoics  were  mainly 
derived  from  the  landed  gentry.  An  instinct  that 
the  spirit  of  the  club  was  safest  with  persons  of 
this  class  guided  them  in  their  elections ;  and  eldest 
sons,  who  became  members  almost  as  a  matter  of 
course,  lost  no  time  in  putting  up  their  younger 
brothers,  thereby  keeping  the  wine  as  pure  as  might 
be,  and  preserving  that  fine  old  country-house  flavour, 
which  is  nowhere  so  appreciated  as  in  London. 

After  seeing  Gregory  pass  on  to  the  top  of  a  'bus, 
George  Pendyce  went  into  the  card-room,  and,  as  it 
was  still  empty,  set  to  contemplation  of  the  pictures 


94  The  Country  House 

on  the  walls.  They  were  effigies  of  all  those  members 
of  the  Stoics'  Club  who  from  time  to  time  had  come 
under  the  notice  of  a  celebrated  caricaturist  in  a 
celebrated  society  paper.  Whenever  a  Stoic  ap- 
peared, he  was  at  once  cut  out,  framed,  glassed, 
and  hung  alongside  his  fellows  in  this  room.  And 
George  moved  from  one  to  another  till  he  came  to 
the  last.  It  was  himself.  He  was  represented  in 
very  perfectly  cut  clothes,  with  slightly  crooked 
elbows,  and  race-glasses  slung  across  him.  His  head, 
disproportionately  large,  was  surmounted  by  a  black 
billycock  hat  with  a  very  flat  brim.  The  artist  had 
thought  long  and  carefully  over  the  face.  The  lips 
and  cheeks  and  chin  were  moulded  so  as  to  convey 
a  feeling  of  the  unimaginative  joy  of  life,  but  to  their 
shape  and  complexion  was  imparted  a  suggestion 
of  obstinacy  and  choler.  To  the  eyes  was  given  a 
glazed  look,  and  between  them  set  a  little  line,  as 
though  their  owner  was  thinking: 

"Hard  work — ^hard  work!  Noblesse  oblige.  I  must 
keep  it  going!" 

Underneath  was  written:  "The  Ambler." 

George  stood  long,  looking  at  the  apotheosis  of 
his  fame.  His  star  was  high  in  the  heavens.  With 
the  eye  of  his  mind  he  saw  a  long  procession  of  turf 
triumphs,  a  long  vista  of  days  and  nights,  and  in 
them,  round  them,  of  them — Helen  Bellew;  and  by 
an  odd  coincidence,  as  he  stood  there,  the  artist's 
glazed  look  came  over  his  eyes,  the  little  line  sprang 
up  between  them. 

He  turned  at  the  sound  of  voices  and  sank  into  a 
chair.  To  have  been  caught  thus  gazing  at  himself 
would  have  jarred  on  his  sense  of  what  was  right. 

It  was  twenty  minutes  past  seven  when  in  evening 


At  Blafard's  95 

dress  he  left  the  club,  and  took  a  shilling's-worth 
to  Buckingham  Gate.  Here  he  dismissed  his  cab, 
and  turned  up  the  large  fur  collar  of  his  coat.  Be- 
tween the  brim  of  his  opera  hat,  and  the  edge  of  that 
collar,  nothing  but  his  eyes  were  visible.  He  waited, 
compressing  his  lips,  scrutinising  each  hansom  that 
went  by.  In  the  soft  glow  of  one  coming  fast  he  saw 
a  hand  raised  to  the  trap.  The  cab  stopped; 
George  stepped  out  of  the  shadow  and  got  in.  The 
cab  went  on  and  Mrs.  Bellew's  arm  pressed  against 
his  own. 

It  was  their  simple  formula  for  arriving  at  a  restau- 
rant together. 

In  the  third  of  several  little  rooms  where  the  lights 
were  shaded,  they  sat  down  at  a  table  in  a  corner, 
facing  each  a  wall,  and,  underneath,  her  shoe  stole 
out  along  the  floor  and  touched  his  patent  leather 
boot.  In  their  eyes,  for  all  their  would-be  wariness, 
a  light  smouldered  that  would  not  be  put  out.  An 
habitu^,  sipping  claret  at  a  table  across  the  little 
room,  watched  them  in  a  mirror,  and  there  came  into 
his  old  heart  a  glow  of  warmth,  half  ache,  half  sym- 
pathy; a  smile  of  understanding  stirred  the  crow's-feet 
round  his  eyes;  its  sweetness  ebbed,  and  left  a  little 
grin  about  his  shaven  lips.  Behind  the  archway 
in  the  neighbouring  room,  two  waiters  met,  and  in 
their  nods  and  glances  was  that  same  unconscious 
sympathy,  the  same  conscious  grin.  And  the  old 
habitu^  thought: 

"How  long  will  it  last?  .  .  .  Waiter,  some 
coffee,  and  my  bill!" 

He  had  meant  to  go  to  the  play,  but  he  lingered  in- 
stead to  look  as  Mrs.  Bellews'.  white  shoulders  and 
bright  eyes  in« the  kindly  mirror.     And    he  thought; 


96  The  Country  House 

**  Young  days  at  present — ^ah! — ^young  days!  .  .  . 
Waiter,  a  Benedictine!"  And  hearing  her  laugh, 
his  old  heart  ached.  "No  one,"  he  thought,  "will 
evei  laugh  like  that  for  me  again!  .  .  .  Here,  waiter, 
how's  this,  you  've  charged  me  for  an  ice!"  But 
when  the  waiter  had  gone,  he  glanced  back  into 
the  mirror,  and  saw  them  clink  their  glasses  filled 
with  golden  bubbling  wine,  and  he  thought:  "Wish 
you  good  luck!  For  a  flash  of  those  teeth,  my  dear, 
I  'd  give " 

But  his  eye  fell  on  the  paper  flowers  adorning 
his  little  table:  yellow,  and  red,  and  green;  hard, 
lifeless,  tawdry.  He  saw  them  suddenly  as  they 
were,  with  the  dregs  of  wine  in  his  glass,  the  spill  of 
gravy  on  the  cloth,  the  ruin  of  the  nuts  that  he  had 
eaten.  Wheezing  and  coughing:  "This  place  is  not 
what  it  was,"  he  thought.  "I  shan't  come  here 
again!" 

He  struggled  into  his  coat  to  go,  but  he  looked 
once  more  in  the  mirror,  and  met  their  eyes  rest- 
ing on  himself.  In  them  he  read  the  careless  pity 
of  the  young  for  the  old.  His  eyes  answered  the 
reflection  of  their  eyes,  "Wait!  Wait!  It  is  young 
days  yet!  I  wish  you  no  harm  my  dears!"  and 
limping,  for  one  of  his  legs  was  lame,  he  went  away. 

But  George  and  his  partner  sat  on,  and  with  every 
glass  of  wine  the  light  in  their  eyes  grew  brighter. 
For  who  was  there  now  in  the  room  to  mind — not  a 
living  soul!  Only  a  tall,  dark  young  waiter,  a  little 
cross-eyed,  who  was  in  consumption;  only  the  little 
wine  waiter,  with  a  pallid  face,  and  a  look  as  if  he 
suffered.  And  the  whole  world  seemed  of  the  colour 
of  the  wine  they  had  been  drinking;  but  they  talked 
of  indifferent  things,  and  only  their  eyes,  bemused 


At  Blafard's  97 

and  shining,  really  spoke.  The  dark  young  waiter 
stood  apart,  unmoving,  and  his  cross-eyed  glance 
fixed  on  her  shoulders,  had,  all  unconsciously,  the 
longing  of  a  saint  in  some  holy  picture;  unseen,  be- 
hind the  serving  screen,  the  little  wine  waiter  poured 
out  and  drank  a  glass  from  a  derelict  bottle.  Through 
a  chink  of  the  red  blinds,  an  eye  peered  in  from  the 
chill  outside,  staring  and  curious,  till  its  owner  passed 
on  in  the  cold. 

It  was  long  after  nine  when  they  rose.  The  dark 
young  waiter  laid  her  cloak  upon  her  with  adoring 
hands.  She  looked  back  at  him,  and  in  her  eyes  was 
an  infinite  indulgence:  "God  knows" — she  seemed  to 
say — "  if  I  could  make  you  happy  as  well,  I  would. 
Why  should  one  suffer?     Life  is  strong  and  good!  " 

The  young  waiter's  cross-eyed  glance  fell  before 
her,  and  he  bowed  above  the  money  in  his  hand. 
Quickly  before  them  the  little  wine  waiter  hurried 
to  the  door,  his  suffering  face  screwed  into  one  long 
smile. 

"Good  night,  madam;  good  night,  sir.  Thank  you 
very  much." 

And  he  too  remained  bowed  over  his  hand,  and 
his  smile  relaxed. 

But  in  the  cab  George's  arm  stole  round  her  under- 
neath the  cloak,  and  they  were  borne  on  in  the  stream 
of  hurrying  hansoms,  carrying  couples  like  them- 
selves, cut  off  from  all  but  each  other's  eyes,  from  all 
but  each  other's  touch;  and  with  their  eyes  turned 
in  the  half  dark,  they  spoke  together  in  low  tones. 

7 


.%-%♦. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

GREGORY  REOPENS  THE  CAMPAIGN 

AT  one  end  of  the  walled  garden  which  Mr.  Pen- 
dyce  had  formed  in  imitation  of  that  at  dear 
old  Strathbeggaly,  was  a  virgin  orchard  of  pear  and 
cherry  trees.  They  blossomed  early,  and  by  the 
third  week  in  April  the  last  of  the  cherries  had  broken 
into  flower.  In  the  long  grass  underneath,  a  wealth 
of  daffodils,  jonquils,  and  narcissus,  came  up  year 
after  year  and  sunned  their  yellow  stars  in  the  light 
that  dappled  through  the  blossom. 

And  here  Mrs.  Pendyce  would  come,  tan  gaunt- 
lets on  her  hands,  and  stand,  her  face  a  little 
flushed  with  stooping,  as  though  the  sight  of  all  that 
bloom  was  restful.  It  was  due  to  her  that  these 
old  trees  escaped  year  after  year  the  pruning  and 
improvements  which  the  genius  of  the  Squire  would 
otherwise  have  applied.  She  had  been  brought  up 
in  an  old  Totteridge  tradition,  that  fruit  trees  should 
be  left  to  themselves,  while  her  husband,  possessed 
of  a  grasp  of  the  subject  not  more  than  usually  be- 
hind the  times,  was  all  for  newer  methods.  She  had 
fought  for  those  trees.  They  were  as  yet  the  only 
things  she  had  fought  for  in  her  married  life,  and 
Horace  Pendyce  still  remembered  with  a  discomfort 
that  time  had  robbed  of  poignancy,  how  she  had 


Gregory  Reopens  the  Campaign     99 

stood  with  her  back  to  their  bedroom  door,  and  said: 
**If  you  cut  those  poor  trees,  Horace,  I  won't  live 
here!"  He  had  at  once  expressed  his  determination 
to  have  them  pruned;  but  having  put  off  action  for 
a  day  or  so,  the  trees  still  stood  unpruned  thirty- three 
years  later.  He  had  even  come  to  feel  rather  proud 
of  the  fact  that  they  continued  to  bear  fruit,  and  would 
speak  of  them  thus:  "Queer  fancy  of  my  wife's,  never 
been  cut.  And  yet,  remarkable  thing,  they  do  better 
than  any  o^  the  others!" 

This  spring,  when  all  was  so  forward,  and  the 
cuckoos  already  in  full  song,  when  the  scent  of  young 
larches  in  the  New  Plantation,  (planted  the  year  of 
George's  birth),  was  in  the  air  like  the  perfume  of 
celestial  lemons,  she  came  to  the  orchard  more  than 
usual,  and  her  spirit  felt  the  stirring,  the  old  half- 
painful  yearning  for  she  knew  not  what,  that  she 
had  felt  so  often  in  her  first  years  at  Worsted  Skeynes. 
And  sitting  there  on  a  green- painted  seat  under  the 
largest  of  the  cherry  trees  she  thought  even  more  than 
her  wont  of  George,  as  though  her  son's  spirit,  vi- 
brating in  its  first  real  passion,  were  calling  to  her 
for  sympathy. 

He  had  been  down  so  little  all  that  winter,  twice 
for  a  couple  of  days  shooting,  once  for  a  week-end, 
when  she  had  thought  him  looking  thinner  and  rather 
worn.  He  had  missed  Christmas  for  the  first  time. 
With  infinite  precaution,  she  had  asked  him  casually 
if  he  had  seen  Helen  Bellew,  and  he  had  answered: 
"Oh!  yes — ^I  see  her  once  in  a  way!" 

Secretly  all  through  the  winter  she  consulted  the 
Times  newspaper  for  mention  of  George's  horse, 
and  was  disappointed  not  to  find  any.  Qne  day, 
however,    in    February   discovering    him    absolutely 


loo  The  Country  House 

at  the  head  of  several  lists  of  horses  with  figures 
after  them,  she  wrote  off  at  once  with  a  joyful  heart. 
Of  five  lists  in  which  the  Ambler's  name  appeared, 
there  was  only  one  in  which  he  was  second.  George's 
answer  came  in  the  course  of  a  week  or  so: 

"My  dear  Mother, 

"What  you  saw  were  the  weights  for  the 
Spring   Handicaps.     They  've  simply  done  me   out 
of  everything. 
"In  great  haste 

"Your  affectionate  son, 
.  "George  Pendyce." 

As  the  spring  approached,  the  vision  of  her  inde- 
pendent visit  to  London,  which  had  sustained  her 
throughout  the  winter,  having  performed  its  annual 
function,  grew  mistier  and  mistier,  and  at  last  faded 
away.  She  ceased  even  to  dream  of  it,  as  though 
it  had  never  been,  nor  did  George  remind  her;  and 
as  usual  she  ceased  even  to  wonder  whether  he  would 
remind  her.  She  thought  •  instead  of  the  season 
visit,  and  its  scurry  of  parties,  with  a  sort  of  languid 
fluttering.  For  Worsted  Skeynes  and  all  that  Worsted 
Skeynes  stood  for,  was  like  a  heavy  horseman  guiding 
her  with  iron  hand  along  a  narrow  lane;  she  dreamed 
of  throwing  him  in  the  open,  but  the  open  she  never 
reached. 

She  woke  at  seven  with  her  tea,  and  from  seven 
to  eight  made  little  notes  on  tablets,  while  on  his 
back  Mr.  Pendyce  snored  lightly.  She  rose  at  eight. 
At  nine  she  poured  out  coffee.  From  half-past  nine 
to  ten  she  attended  to  the  housekeeper,  and  her  birds. 
From  ten  to  eleven  she  attended  to  the  gardener  and 
her  dress.     From  eleven  to  twelve  she  wrote  invi- 


Gregory  Reopens  th-^  Canipafgri-  ioi? 

tations  to  persons  for  whom  she  did  not  care,  and 
acceptances  to  persons  who  did  not  care  for  her; 
she  drew  out  also  and  placed  in  due  sequence  cheques , 
for  Mr.  Pendyce's  signature;  and  secured  receipts,, 
carefully  docketed  on  the  back,  within  an  elastic: 
band;  as  a  rule  also,  she  received  a  visit  from  Mrsi. 
Hussell  Barter.  From  twelve  to  one  she  walked  witil? 
her  and  with  "the  dear  dogs"  into  the  village,  where 
she  stood  hesitatingly  in  the  cottage  doors  of  persons 
who  were  shy  of  her.  From  half- past  one  to  two 
she  lunched.  From  two  to  three  she  rested  on  a  sofa 
in  the  white  morning-room  with  the  newspaper  in 
her  hand,  trying  to  read  the  Parliamentary  Debate 
and  thinking  of  other  things.  From  three  to  half- 
past  four  she  went  to  her  dear  flowers,  from  which 
she  was  liable  to  be  summoned  at  any  moment  by 
the  arrival  of  callers;  or  getting  into  the  carriage  was 
driven  to  some  neighbour's  mansion,  where  she  sat 
for  half  an  hour  and  came  away.  At  half- past  four 
she  poured  out  tea.  At  five  she  knitted  a  tie,  or 
socks,  for  George  or  Gerald,  and  listened  with  a 
gentle  smile  to  what  was  going  on.  From  six  to 
seven  she  received  from  the  Squire  his  impressions 
of  Parliament  and  things  at  large.  From  seven 
to  seven-thirty  she  changed  to  a  black  low  dress, 
with  old  lace  about  the  neck.  At  seven-thirty  she 
dined.  At  a  quarter  to  nine  she  listened  to  Norah 
playing  two  waltzes  of  Chopin's,  and  a  piece  called 
Serenade  du  Printemps  by  Baff ,  and  to  Bee  singing  The 
Mikado  or  the  Savicy  Girl.  From  nine  to  ten- 
thirty  she  played  a  game  called  piquet  which  her 
father  had  taught  her,  if  she  could  get  any  one  with 
whom  to  play,  but  as  this  was  seldom  she  played,  as 
a  rule,  "Patience"   by   herself.     At   ten-thirty   sho^ 


lo^-  The  Country  House 

went  to  bed.  At  eleven- thirty  punctually  the 
Squire  woke  her.  At  one  o'clock  she  went  to  sleep. 
On  Mondays  she  wrote  out  in  her  clear  Totteridge 
hand  with  its  fine  straight  strokes,  a  list  of  library 
books,  made  up  without  distinction  of  all  that  were 
recommended  in  the  Ladies'  Paper  that  came  weekly 
to  Worsted  Skeynes ;  periodically  Mr.  Pendyce  would 
hand  her  a  list  of  his  own,  compiled  out  of  the  Times 
and  the  Field  in  the  privacy  of  his  study;  this  she 
sent  too. 

Thus  was  the  house  supplied  with  literature  un- 
erringly adapted  to  its  needs;  nor  was  it  possible  for 
any  undesirable  book  to  find  its  way  into  the  house — 
not  that  this  would  have  mattered  much  to  Mrs. 
Pendyce,  for  as  she  often  said  with  gentle  regret; 
"My  dear,  I  have  no  time  to  read!" 

This  afternoon  it  was  so  warm  that  the  bees  were 
all  around  among  the  blossoms,  and  two  thrushes 
who  had  built  in  a  yew  tree  that  watched  over  the 
Scotch  garden,  were  in  a  violent  flutter  because  one 
of  their  chicks  had  fallen  out  of  the  nest.  The  mother 
bird,  at  the  edge  of  the  long  orchard  grass,  was  silent, 
trying  by  example  to  still  the  tiny  creature's  cheep- 
ing, that  might  attract  some  large  or  human  thing. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  sitting  under  the  oldest  cherry  tree, 
looked  for  the  sound,  and  when  she  had  located  it, 
picked  up  the  baby  bird,  and,  as  she  knew  the  where- 
abouts of  all  the  nests,  put  it  back  into  its  cradle, 
to  the  loud  terror  and  grief  of  the  parent  birds. 
She  went  back  to  the  bench  and  sat  down 
again. 

She  had  in  her  soul  something  of  the  terror  of  the 
mother  thrush.  The  Maidens  had  been  paying  the 
call  that  preceded  their  annual  migration  to  town, 


Gregory  Reopens  the  Campaign  103 

and  the  peculiar  glow  which  Lady  Maiden  had 
the  power  of  raising  had  not  yet  left  her  cheeks. 
True,  she  had  the  comfort  of  the  thought:  "Ellen 
Maiden  is  so  bourgeoise,"  but  to-day  it  did  not  still 
her  heart. 

Accompanied  by  one  pale  daughter  who  never 
left  her,  and  two  pale  dogs,  forced  to  run  all  the  way, 
now  lying  under  the  carriage  with  their  tongues  out, 
Lady  Maiden  had  come  and  stayed  full  time;  and 
for  three-quarters  of  that  time  she  had  seemed  as 
it  were,  labouring  under  a  sense  of  duty  unfulfilled; 
for  the  remaining  quarter  Mrs.  Pendyce  had  laboured 
under  a  sense  of  duty  fulfilled. 

"My  dear,"  Lady  Maiden  had  said,  having  told 
the  pale  daughter  to  go  into  the  conservatory,  "I  'm 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  repeat  gossip  as 
you  know,  but  I  think  it  's  only  right  to  tell  you 
that  r  ve  been  hearing  things.  You  see,  my  boy 
Fred, "  (who  would  ultimately  become  Sir-  Frederick 
Maiden),  "belongs  to  the  same  club  as  your  son 
George — The  Stoics.  All  young  men  belong  there 
of  course,  I  mean  if  they  're  anybody.  I  'm  sorry 
to  say  there  's  no  doubt  about  it,  your  son  has  been 
seen  dining  at — perhaps  I  ought  not  to  mention  the 
name — ^Blafard's — ^with  Mrs.  Bellew.  I  dare  say 
you  don't  know  what  sort  of  a  place  Blafard's  is — 
a  lot  of  little  rooms  where  people  go  when  they  don't 
want  to  be  seen.  I  've  never  been  there  of  course, 
but  I  can  imagine  it  perfectly.  And  not  once,' but 
frequently.  I  thought  I  would  speak  to  you,  be- 
cause I  do  think  it 's  scandalous  of  her  in  her 
position!" 

An  azalea  in  a  blue  and  white  pot  had  stood  be- 
tween them,  and  in  this  plant  Mrs.  Pendyce  buried 


I04  The  Country  House 

her  cheeks  and  eyes;  but  when  she  raised  her  face 
her  eyebrows  were  lifted  to  their  utmost  limit,  her 
lips  trembled  with  anger. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  ''didn't  you  know?  There's 
nothing  in  that — ^it  's  the  latest  thing!" 

For  a  moment  Lady  Maiden  wavered,  then  duskily 
flushed;  her  temperament  and  principles  had  recov- 
ered themselves. 

"If  that,"  she  said  with  some  dignity,  **is  the 
latest  thing,  I  think  it  is  quite  time  we  were  back  in 
town." 

She  rose,  and  as  she  rose — such  was  her  unfor- 
tunate conformation — it  flashed  through  Mrs.  Pen- 
dyce's  mind: 

"Why  was  I  afraid?  she  's  only "    And  then, 

as  quickly:  "  Poor  woman — ^how  can  she  help  her 
legs  being  short?" 

But  when  she  was  gone,  side  by  side  with  the  pale 
daughter,  the  pale  dogs  once  more  running  behind 
the  carriage,  Margery  Pendyce  put  her  hand  to  her 
heart. 

And  out  here  amongst  the  bees  and  blossoms,  where 
the  blackbirds  were  improving  each  minute  their 
new  songs,  and  the  air  was  so  fainting  sweet  with 
scents,  her  heart  would  not  be  stilled,  but  throbbed 
as  though  danger  were  coming  on  herself;  and  she 
saw  her  son  as  a  little  boy  again  in  a  dirty  holland 
suit  with  a  straw  hat  down  the  back  of  his  neck, 
flushed  and  sturdy,  as  he  came  to  her  from  some 
adventure. 

And  suddenly  a  gush  of  emotion  from  deep  within 
her  heart  and  the  heart  of  the  spring  day,  a  sense 
of  being  severed  from  him  by  a  great,  remorseless 
power,  came    over  her ;  and  taking  out  a  tiny  em- 


Gregory  Reopens  the  Campaign   105 

broidered  handkerchief,  she  wept.  Round  her  the 
bees  hummed  carelessly,  the  blossoms  dropped,  the 
dappled  sunlight  covered  her  with  a  pattern  as  of 
her  own  fine  lace.  From  the  home  farm  came  the 
lowing  of  the  cows  on  their  way  to  their  milking,  and, 
strange  sound  in  that  well-ordered  home,  a  distant 
piping  on  a  penny  flute.  .  .  . 

"Mother!     Mother!     Mo-o-ther!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  passed  her  handkerchief  across  her 
eyes,  and,  instinctively  obeying  the  laws  of  breeding, 
her  face  lost  all  trace  of  its  emotion;  she  waited,  crum- 
pling the  tiny  handkerchief  in  her  gauntletted  hand. 

"Mother!  Oh!  there  you  are.  Here  's  Gregory 
Vigil!" 

Norah,  a  fox-terrier  on  either  side,  was  coming  down 
the  path;  behind  her,  unhatted,  appeared  Gregory's 
sanguine  face  between  his  wings  of  grizzled  hair. 

"I  suppose  you  *re  going  to  talk.  I  'm  going  over 
to  the  Rectory.     Ta-ta!" 

And  preceded  by  her  dogs,  Norah  went  on. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  put  out  her  hand. 

"Well,  Grig,"  she  said,  "this  is  a  surprise." 

Gregory  seated  himself  beside  her  on  the  bench. 

"I've  brought  you  this,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to 
look  at  it  before  I  answer. " 

Mrs.  Pendyce,  who  vaguely  felt  that  he  would 
want  her  to  see  things  as  he  was  seeing  them,  took 
a  letter  from  him  with  a  sinking  heart. 

''Private. 

"Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
"April  21,    1892. 
"  My  dear  Vigil, 

"I    have    now    secured    such    evidence    as 
should  warrant  our  instituting  a  suit;  I  've  written 


io6  The  Country  House 

your  ward  to  that  effect,  and  am  awaiting  her  in- 
structions. Unfortunately,  we  have  no  act  of  cruelty, 
and  I  've  been  obliged  to  draw  her  attention  to  the 
fact  that  should  her  husba,nd  defend  the  suit,  it  will 
be  difficult  to  get  the  Court  to  accept  their  separation 
in  the  light  of  desertion  on  his  part- — difficult  indeed, 
even  if  he  does  n't  defend  the  suit.  In  divorce  cases 
one  has  to  remember  that  what  has  to  be  kept  out  is 
often  more  important  than  what  has  to  be  got  in, 
and  it  would  be  useful  to  know  therefore  whether 
there  is  likelihood  of  opposition.  I  do  not  advise 
any  direct  approaching  of  the  husband,  but  if  you 
are  possessed  of  the  information,  you  might  let  me 
know.  I  hate  humbug,  my  dear  Vigil,  and  I  hate 
anything  underhand,  but  divorce  is  always  a  dirty 
business,  and  while  the  law  is  shaped  as  at  present, 
and  the  linen  washed  in  public,  it  will  remain  im- 
possible for  any  one,  guilty  or  innocent,  and  even 
for  us  lawyers,  to  avoid  soiling  our  hands  in  one  way 
or  another.  I  regret  it  as  much  as  you  do,  but  I 
cannot  help  it. 

"There  is  a  new  man  writing  verse  in  the  Tertiary y 
some  of  it  quite  first-rate — ^you  might  look  at  the 
last  number.     My  blossom  this  year  is  magnificent. 
"With  kind  regards,  I  am 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"EJdmund  Paramor. 
"  Gregory  Vigil,  Esq." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  dropped  the  letter  in  her  lap,  and 
looked   at   her   cousin. 

"He  was  at  Harrow  with  Horace.  I  do  like  him; 
he  is  one  of  the  very  nicest  men  I  know." 

It  was  clear  that  she  was  trying  to  gain  time. 

Gregory  began  pacing  up  and  down. 


Gregory  Reopens  the  Campaign  107 

"Paramor  is  a  man  for  whom  I  have  the  highest 
respect.     I  would  trust  him  before  any  one.  " 

It  was  clear  that  he  too  was  trying  to  gain  time. 

"Oh!  mind  my  daffodils,  please!'' 

Gregory  went  down  on  his  knees,  and  raised  the 
bloom  that  he  had  trodden  on.  He  then  offered  it 
to  Mrs.  Pendyce.  The  action  was  one  to  which  she 
was  so  unaccustomed  that  it  struck  her  as  slightly 
ridiculous. 

"My  dear  Grig,  you  '11  get  rheumatism,  and  spoil 
that  nice  suit;  the  grass  comes  off  so  terribly!" 

Gregory  got  up,  and  looked  shamefacedly  at  his 
knees. 

"The  knee  is  not  what  it  used  to  be,"  he   said. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  smiled,  a  gentle,  twisted  smile: 

"You  should  keep  your  knees  for  Helen  Bellew, 
Grig;  I  was  always  five  years  older  than  you. " 

Gregory  rumpled  up  his  hair. 

"Kneeling  's  out  of  fashion,  but  I  thought  in  the 
country  you  would  n't  mind!" 

"You  don't  notice  things,  dear  Grig;  in  the  coun- 
try it  's  still  more  out  of  fashion.  You  would  n't 
find  a  woman  within  thirty  miles  of  here  who  would 
like  a  man  to  kneel  to  her;  we  've  lost  the  habit.  She 
would  think  she  was  being  made  fun  of.  We  soon 
grow  out  of  vanity!" 

"In  London,"  said  Gregory,  "I  hear  all  women 
intend  to  be  men;  but  in  the  country,  I  thought " 

"In  the  country,  Grig,  all  women  would  like  to  be 
men,  but  they  don't  dare  to  try.     They  trot  behind. " 

As  if  she  had  been  guilty  of  thoughts  too  insightful, 
Mrs.  Pendyce  blushed. 

Gregory  broke  out  wSuddenly : 

"I  can't  bear  to  think  of  women  like  that  I" 


io8  The  Country  House 

Again  Mrs.  Pendyce  smiled: 

"You  see,  Grig  dear,  you  are  not  married.** 

"I  detest  the  idea  that  marriage  changes  otir 
views,  Margery;  I  loathe  it." 

"Mind  my  daffodils!"  murmured  Mrs.   Pendyce. 

She  was  thinking  all  the  time:  "That  dreadful  let- 
ter!    What  am  I  to  do?" 

And  as  though  he  knew  her  thoughts,  Gregory 
said: 

"I  shall  assume  that  Bellew  will  not  defend  the 
case.  If  he  has  a  spark  of  chivalry  in  him,  he  will 
be  only  too  glad  to  see  her  free.  I  will  never  believe 
that  any  man  could  be  such  a  soulless  clod  as  to 
wish  to  keep  her  bound.  I  don't  pretend  to  under- 
stand the  law,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  there  's  only 
one  way  for  a  man  to  act,  and  after  all,  Bellew  's  a 
gentleman;  you'll  see  that  he  will  act  like  one!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  at  the  daffodil  in  her  lap. 

"I  have  only  seen  him  three  or  four  times,  but  it 
seemed  to  me.  Grig,  that  he  was  a  man  who  might  act 
in  one  way  to-day  and  in  another  to-morrow.  He 
is  so  very  different   from  all  the  men  about  here. 

"When  it  comes  to  the  deep  things  of  life,"  said 
Gregory,  "one  man  is  much  as  another.  Is  there 
any  man  you  know,  who  would  be  so  lacking  in 
chivalry  as  to  refuse  in  these  circumstances?" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  at  him  with  a  confused  ex- 
pression; wonder,  admiration,  irony,  and  even  fear, 
struggled  in  her  eyes. 

"I  can  think  of  dozens.  Grig.** 

Gregory  clutched  his  forehead. 

"Margery,"  he  said,  "I  hate  your  cynicism — ^I 
don't  know  where  you  get  it  from. " 

"I  'm  so  sorry — ^I  didn't  mean  to  be  cynical;  I 


Gregory  Reopens  the  Campaign  109 

did  n't,  really,  I  only  spoke  from  what  I  've  seen. " 

**Seen?"  said  Gregory;  "if  I  were  to  go  by  what  I 
saw  daily,  hourly,  in  London  in  the  course  of  my 
work,  I  should  commit  suicide  within  a  week." 

"But,  dear  Grig,  what  else  can  one  go  by?" 

Without  answering,  Gregory  walked  to  the  edge 
of  the  orchard,  and  stood  gazing  over  the  Scotch 
garden,  with  his  face  a  little  tilted  towards  the  sky. 
Mrs.  Pendyce  felt  he  was  grieving  that  she  failed  to 
see  whatever  it  was  he  saw  up  there;  and  she  was 
sorry.     He  came  back  and  said: 

"We  won't  discuss  it  any  more!" 

Very  dubiously  she  heard  those  words,  but  as  she 
could  not  express  the  anxiety  and  doubt  torturing 
her  soul,  told  him  tea  was  ready.  But  Gregory 
would  not  come  in  just  yet  out  of  the  sun. 

In  the  drawing-room  Beatrix  was  already  giving 
tea  to  young  Tharp  and  the  Reverend  Hussell  Barter. 
And  the  sound  of  these  well-known  voices  restored 
to  Mrs.  Pendyce  something  of  her  tranquillity.  The 
Rector  came  towards  her  at  once  with  a  teacup  in 
his  hand. 

"My  wife  has  got  a  headache,"  he  said;  "she 
wanted  to  come  over  with  me,  but  I  made  her  lie 
down;  nothing  like  lying  down  for  a  headache.  We 
expect  it  in  June,  you  know.  Let  me  get  you  your 
tea!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  already  aware  even  to  the  day  of 
what  he  expected  in  June,  sat  down  and  looked  at 
Mr.  Barter  with  a  slight  feeling  of  surprise.  He  was 
really  a  very  good  fellow,  it  was  nice  of  him  to  make 
his  wife  lie  down.  She  thought  his  broad,  red-brown 
face,  with  its  projecting,  not  unhumorous,  lower  lip 
looked  very  friendly.     Roy,  the  Skye-terrier  at  her 


no  The  Country  House 

feet,  was  smelling  at  the  Reverend  gentleman*s  legs 
with  a  slow  movement  of  his  tail. 

"The  old  dog  likes  me,"  said  the  Rector,  "they 
know  a  dog-lover  when  they  see  one — wonderful 
creatures,  dogs!  I  'm  sometimes  tempted  to  think 
they  may  have  souls!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  answered: 

*'  Horace  says  he  's  getting  too  old. " 

The  dog  looked  up  in  her  face,  and  her  lip  quivered. 

The  Rector  laughed: 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that;  there  's  plenty  of 
life  in  him. "  And  he  added  unexpectedly,  "  I  couldn  't 
bear  to  put  a  dog  away;  the  friend  of  man.  No,  no; 
let  Nature  see  to  that." 

Over  at  the  piano  Bee  and  young  Tharp  were 
turning  the  pages  of  the  Saucy  Girl;  the  room  was 
full  of  the  scent  of  azaleas;  and  Mr.  Barter,  astride 
of  a  gilt  chair,  looked  almost  sympathetic,  gazing 
tenderly  at  the  old  Skye. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  felt  a  sudden  yearning  to  free  her 
mind,  a  sudden  longing  to  ask  a  man's  advice. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Barter,"  she  said,  "my  cousin,  Gregory 
Vigil,  has  just  brought  me  some  news;  it  is  confiden- 
tial, please.  Helen  Bellew  is  going  to  sue  for  a 
divorce.     I  wanted  to  ask  you  whether  you  could 

tell   me "      Looking  in   the   Rector's    face,    she 

stopped. 

"A  divorce?"  he  said;  "H'm!     Really!" 

A  chill  of  terror  came  over  Mrs.  Pendyce. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "you  will  not  mention  it  to 
any  one,  not  even  to  Horace.  It  has  nothing  to  do 
with  VIS." 

Mr.  Barter  bowed;  his  face  wore  the  expression  it 
SO  often  wore  in  school  on  Sunday  mornings. 


Gregory  Reopens  the  Campaign     1 1 1 

"H'm!"  he  said  again. 

It  flashed  through  Mrs.  Pendyce  that  this  man 
with  the  heavy  jowl  and  menacing  eyes,  who  sat  so 
square  on  that  flimsy  chair,  knew  something.  It 
was  as  though  he  had  answered: 

"This  is  not  a  matter  for  women;  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  leave  it  to  me!" 

With  the  exception  of  those  few  words  of  Lady 
Maiden's,  and  the  recollection  of  George's  face  when 
he  had  said:  "Oh!  yes — I  see  her  now  and  then!" 
she  had  no  evidence,  no  knowledge,  nothing  to  go 
on,  but  she  knew  from  some  instinctive  source  that 
her  son  was  Mrs.  Bellew's  lover. 

So,  with  terror  and  a  strange  hope,  she  saw  Gregory 
entering  the  room. 

"Perhaps,"  she  thought,  "he  will  make  Grig  stop 
it." 

She  poured  out  Gregory's  tea,  followed  Bee  and 
Cecil  Tharp  into  the  conservatory,  and  left  the  two 
men  together. 


CHAPTER  II 

CONTINUED    INFLUENCE    OP    THE    REVEREND    HUSSBLL 
BARTER 

TO  understand  and  sympathise  with  the  feelings 
and  action  of  the  Rector  of  Worsted  Skeynes, 
one  must  consider  his  origin  and  the  circumstances 
of  his  life. 

The  second  son  of  an  old  Suffolk  family,  he  had 
followed  the  routine  of  his  house,  and  having  passed 
at  Oxford  through  certain  examinations,  had  been 
certificated  at  the  age  of  twenty- four  as  a  man  fitted 
to  impart  to  persons  of  both  sexes  rules  of  life  and 
conduct  after  which  they  had  been  groping  for  twice 
or  thrice  that  number  of  years.  His  character, 
never  at  any  time  undecided,  was  by  this  fortunate 
circumstance  crystallised  and  rendered  immune 
from  the  necessity  for  self-research  and  spiritual 
struggle  incidental  to  his  neighbours.  Since  he  was 
a  man  neither  below  nor  above  the  average,  it  did 
not  occur  to  him  to  criticise  or  place  himself  in  oppo- 
sition to  a  system  which  had  gone  on  so  long  and  was 
about  to  do  him  so  much  good.  ,  Like  all  average 
men  he  was  a  believer  in  authority,  and  none  the 
less  because  authority  placed  a  large  portion  of 
itself  in  his  hands.  It  would,  indeed,  have  been  un- 
warrantable to  expect  a  man  of  his  birth,  breeding, 
and  education  to  question  the  machine  of  which  he 
was  himself  a  wheel. 

He  had  dropped,  therefore,  at  the  age  of  twentj-sixi 


Influence  of  Rev.  Hussell  Barter  113 

insensibly,  on  the  death  of  an  uncle,  into  the  family 
living  at  Worsted  Skeynes.  He  had  been  there  ever 
since.  It  was  a  constant  and  natural  grief  to  him 
that  on  his  death  his  living  would  go  neither  to  his 
eldest  nor  his  second  son,  but  to  the  second  son  of 
his  elder  brother,  the  Squire.  At  the  age  of  twenty- 
seven  he  had  married  Miss  Rose  Twining,  the  fifth 
daughter  of  a  Huntingdonshire  parson,  and  in  less 
than  eighteen  years  begotten  ten  children,  and  was 
expecting  the  eleventh,  all  healthy  and  hearty  like 
himself.  A  family  group  hung  over  the  fireplace  in 
his  study — ^under  the  framed  and  illuminated  text — • 
"Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged,"  which  he  had 
chosen  as  his  motto  in  the  first  year  of  his  cure,  and 
never  seen  any  reason  to  change.  In  that  family 
group  Mr.  Barter  sat  in  the  centre  with  his  dog  be- 
tween his  legs ;  his  wife  stood  behind  him,  and  on  both 
sides  the  children  spread  out  like  the  wings  of  a  fan 
or  butterfly.  The  bills  of  their  schooling  were  be- 
ginning to  weigh  rather  heavily,  and  he  complained  a 
good  deal,  but  in  principle  he  still  approved  of  the 
habit  into  which  he  had  got,  and  his  wife  never  com- 
plained of  anything. 

The  study  was  furnished  with  studious  simplicity; 
many  a  boy  had  been,  not  unkindly,  caned  there, 
and,  in  one  place,  the  old  Turkey  carpet  was  rotted 
away,  but  whether  by  their  tears  or  by  their  knees, 
not  even  Mr.  Barter  knew.  In  a  cabinet  on  one  side 
of  the  fire  he  kept  all  his  religious  books,  many  of 
them  well-worn ;  in  a  cabinet  on  the  other  side  he  kept 
his  bats,  which  he  was  constantly  oiling  and  splicing; 
a  fishing  rod  and  a  gun  case  stood  modestly  in  a 
corner.  The  archway  between  the  drawers  of  his 
writing-table  held  a  mat    for  his  bulldog,  a  priz« 


114  The  Country  House 

animal,  wont  to  lie  there  and  guard  his  master's 
legs,  when  he  was  writing  his  sermons.  Like  those 
of  his  dog,  the  Rector's  good  points  were  the  old 
English  virtues  of  obstinacy,  courage,  intolerance, 
and  humour;  his  bad  points,  owing  to  the  circum- 
stances of  his  life,  had  never  been  brought  to  his 
notice. 

When,  therefore,  he  found  himself  alone  with 
Gregory  Vigil,  he  approached  him  as  one  dog  will 
approach  another,  and  came  at  once  to  the  matter 
in  hand. 

**  It  's  some  time  since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
you,  Mr.  Vigil,"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Pendyce  has  been 
giving  me  in  confidence  the  news  you  've  brought 
down;  I  'm  bound  to  tell  you  at  once  that  I  'm 
surprised!" 

Gregory  made  a  little  movement  of  recoil,  as 
though  his  delicacy  had  received  a  shock. 

"  Indeed ! "  he  said  with  a  sort  of  quivering  coldness. 

The  Rector,  quick  to  note  opposition,  repeated 
emphatically : 

"More  than  surprised;  in  fact,  I  think  there  must 
be  some  mistake!" 

"Indeed?"  said  Gregory  again. 

A  change  came  over  Mr.  Barter's  face.  It  had 
been  grave,  but  was  now  heavy  and  threatening. 

"I  have  to  say  to  you,"  he  said,  "that  somehow — 
somehow,  this  divorce  must  be  put  a  stop  to. " 

Gregory  flushed  painfully : 

"On  what  grounds?  I  am  not  aware  that  my 
ward  is  a  parishoner  of  yours,  Mr.  Barter;  or  that 
if  she  were " 

The  Rector  closed  in  on  him,  his  head  thrust  for- 
ward, his  lower  lip  projecting. 


Influence  of  Rev.  Hussell  Barter  115 

"If  she  were  doing  her  duty,"  he  said,  *'she  would 
be !  I  'm  not  considering  her — I  'm  considering  her 
husband;  he  is  a  parishioner  of  mine,  and  I  say  this 
divorce  must  be  stopped." 

Gregory  retreated  no  longer. 

"On  what  grounds?"  he  said  again,  trembling  all 
over. 

**I  've  no  wish  to  enter  into  particulars,"  said  Mr. 
Barter,  "but  if  you  force  me  to,  I  shall  not  hesitate. " 

"I  regret  that  I  must,"  answered  Gregory. 

"Without  mentioning  names  then,  I  say  that  she 
is  not  a  fit  person  to  bring  a  suit  for  divorce!" 

"You  say  that?"  said  Gregory;  "you " 

He  could  not  go  on. 

"You  will  not  move  me,  Mr.  Vigil,  "  said  the  Rector 
with  a  grim  little  smile.     "I  have  my  duty  to  do. " 

Gregory  recovered  possession  of  himself  with  an 
effort. 

"You  have  said  that  which  no  one  but  a  clergyman 
could  say  with  impunity,  "  he  said  freezingly.  "  Be  so 
good  as  to  explain  yourself. " 

"My  explanation,"  said  Mr.  Barter,  "is  what  I 
have  seen  with  my  own  eyes." 

He  raised  those  eyes  to  Gregory.  Their  pupils 
were  contracted  to  pin-points,  the  light  grey  irises 
around  had  a  sort  of  swimming  glitter,  and  round 
hese  again  the  whites  were  injected  with  blood. 

"If  you  must  know,  with  my  own  eyes  I  've  seen 
er  in  that  very  conservatory  over  there,  kissing  a 
man. " 

Gregory  threw  up  his  hand. 

"How  dare  you?"  he  whispered. 

Again  Mr.  Barter's  humorous  under  lip  shot  out. 

"I  dare  a  good  deal  more  than  that,  Mr.  Vigil," 


ii6  The  Country  House 

he  said,  "as  you  will  find;  and  I  say  this  to  yoti— 
Stop  this  divorce,  or  I  '11  stop  it  myself!" 

Gregory  turned  to  the  "window ;  when  he  came  bacjc 
he  was  outwardly  calm. 

**You  have  been  guilty  of  indelicacy,'*  he  said. 
"Continue  in  your  delusion,  think  what  you  like, 
do  what  you  like.  The  matter  will  go  on.  Good 
evening,  sir." 

And  turning  on  his  heel,  he  left  the  room. 

Mr.  Barter  stepped  forward.  The  words, "  You  have 
been  guilty  of  indelicacy,"  whirled  round  his  brain 
till  every  blood  vessel  in  his  face  and  neck  was  swollen 
to  bursting,  and  with  a  hoarse  sound  like  that  of 
an  animal  in  pain,  he  pursued  Gregory  to  the  door. 
It  was  shut  in  his  face.  And  since  on  taking  Orders 
he  had  abandoned  for  ever  the  use  of  bad  language, 
he  was  very  near  an  apoplectic  fit.  Suddenly  he 
became  aware  that  Mrs.  Pendyce  was  looking  at  him 
from  the  conservatory  door.  Her  face  was  painfully 
white,  her  eyebrows  lifted,  and  before  that  look  Mr. 
Barter  recovered  a  measure  of  self-possession. 

"Is  anything  the  matter,  Mr.  Barter?" 

The  Rector  smiled  grimly. 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  he  said.  "I  must  ask  you 
to  excuse  me,  that 's  all.  I  've  a  parish  matter  to 
attend  to." 

When  he  found  himself  in  the  drive,  the  feeling  of 
vertigo  and  suffocation  passed,  but  left  him  unre- 
lieved. He  had  in  fact,  happened  on  one  of  those 
psychological  moments  which  enable  a  man's  true 
nature  to  show  itself.  Accustomed  to  say  of  himself 
bluffly:  "Yes,  yes — ^I  've  a  hot  temper — soon  over — " 
he  had  never,  owing  to  the  autocracy  of  his  position, 
had  a  chance  of  knowing  the  tenacity  of  his  soul. 


Influence  of  Rev.  Hussell  Barter  117 

So  accustomed,  and  so  able,  for  many  years  to  vent 
displeasure  at  once,  he  did  not  himself  know  the 
wealth  of  his  old  English  spirit,  did  not  know  of  what 
an  ugly  grip  he  was  capable.  He  did  not  even  know 
it  at  this  minute,  conscious  only  of  a  sort  of  black 
wonder  at  that  monstrous  conduct  to  a  man  in  his 
position,  doing  his  simple  duty.  The  more  he  re- 
flected, the  more  intolerable  did  it  seem  that  a  woman 
like  this  Mrs.  Bellew  should  have  the  impudence  to 
invoke  the  law  of  the  land  in  her  favour — a.  woman 
who  was  no  better  than  a  common  baggage — a  woman 
he  had  seen  kissing  George  Pendyce.  To  have  sug- 
gested to  Mr.  Barter  that  there  was  something  pa- 
thetic in  this  black  wonder  of  his,  pathetic  in  the 
spectacle  of  his  little  soul  delivering  its  little  judg- 
ments, stumbling  its  little  way  along  with  such  blind 
certainty  under  the  huge  heavens,  amongst  millions 
of  organisms  as  important  as  itself,  would  have  as- 
tounded him ;  and  with  every  step  he  took,  the  blacker 
became  his  wonder,  the  more  fixed  his  determination 
to  permit  no  such  abuse  of  morality,  no  such  disre- 
gard of  Hussell  Barter. 

"  You  have  been  guilty  of  indelicacy ! "  This  indict- 
ment had  a  wriggling  sting,  and  lost  no  venom  from 
the  fact  that  he  could  in  no  wise  have  perceived  where 
the  indelicacy  of  his  conduct  lay.  But  he  did  not 
try  to  perceive  it.  Against  himself,  clergyman  and 
gentleman,  the  monstrosity  of  the  charge  was  clear. 
This  was  a  point  of  morality.  He  felt  no  anger 
against  George,  it  was  the  woman  who  excited  his 
just  wrath.  For  so  long  he  had  been  absolute  among 
women,  with  the  power,  as  it  were,  over  them  of  life 
and  death.  This  was  flat  immorality!  He  had 
never  approved  of  her  leaving  her  husband,  he  had 


ii8  The  Country  House 

never  approved  of  her  at  all!  He  turned  his  steps 
towards  the  Firs. 

From  above  the  hedges  the  sleepy  cows  looked 
down,  a  yaffle  laughed  a  field  or  two  away;  in  the 
sycamores  which  had  come  out  before  their  time, 
the  bees  hummed;  under  the  smile  of  the  spring  the 
innumerable  life  of  the  fields  went  carelessly  on, 
around  that  square  black  figure  ploughing  along 
the  lane,  with  head  bent  down  under  a  wide-brimmed 
hat. 

George  Pendyce,  in  a  fly  drawn  by  an  old  grey 
horse,  the  only  vehicle  that  frequented  the  station  at 
Worsted  Skeynes,  passed  him  in  the  lane,  and  leaned 
back  to  avoid  observation.  He  had  not  forgotten 
the  tone  of  the  Rector's  voice  in  the  smoking-room 
on  the  night  of  the  dance.  George  was  a  man  who 
could  remember  as  well  as  another.  In  the  corner 
of  the  old  fly  that  rattled  and  smelled  of  stables  and 
stale  tobacco,  he  fixed  his  moody  eyes  on  the  driver's 
back  and  the  ears  of  the  old  grey  horse,  and  never 
stirred  till  they  set  him  down  at  the  hall  door. 

He  went  at  once  to  his-  room,  sending  word  that 
he  had  come  for  the  night.  His  mother  heard  the 
news  with  feelings  of  joy  and  dread,  and  she  dressed 
quickly  for  dinner,  that  she  might  see  him  the  sooner. 
The  Squire  came  into  her  room  just  as  she  was  going 
down.  He  had  been  engaged  all  day  at  Sessions,  and 
was  in  one  of  the  moods  of  apprehension  as  to  the 
future,  which  but  seldom  came  over  him. 

"Why  did  n't  you  keep  Vigil  to  dinner?"  he  said. 
"I  could  have  given  him  things  for  the  night.  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  him  about  insuring  my  life — ^he 
knows  about  that.  There  '11  be  a  lot  of  money  wanted, 
to  pay  my  death-duties.     And  if  the  Radicals  get  in 


Influence  of  Rev.  Hussell  Barter  119 

I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  they  put  them  up  fifty 
per  cent. " 

"I  wanted  to  keep  him,"  said  Mrs.  Pendyce,  "but 
he  went  away  without  saying  good-bye." 

"He's  an  odd  fellow!" 

For  some  moments  Mr.  Pendyce  made  reflections 
on  this  breach  of  manners.  He  had  a  nice  standard 
of  conduct  in  all  social  affairs. 

"I  'm  having  trouble  with  that  man  Peacock  again. 

He  's  the  most  pig-headed What  are  you  in 

such  a  hurry  for,  Margery?" 

"George  is  here!" 

"George?  Well,  I  suppose  he  can  wait  till  dinner. 
I  have  a  lot  of  things  I  want  to  tell  you  about.  We 
had  a  case  of  arson  to-day.  Old  Quarryman  was  away, 
and  I  was  in  the  chair.  It  was  that  fellow  Woodford 
that  we  convicted  for  poaching — a  very  gross  case. 
And  this  is  what  he  does  when  he  comes  out;  they 
tried  to  prove  insanity.  It's  the  rankest  case  of  re- 
venge that  ever  came  before  me.  We  committed 
him,  of  course.  He  '11  get  a  swinging  sentence.  Of 
all  dreadful  crimes,  arson  is  the  most " 

Mr.  Pendyce  could  find  no  word  to  characterise  his 
opinion  of  this  offence  and  drawing  his  breath  be- 
tween his  teeth,  passed  into  his  dressing-room.  Mrs. 
Pendyce  hastened  quietly  out,  and  went  to  her  son's 
room.  She  found  George  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  inserting 
the  links  of  his  cuffs. 

"Let  me  do  that  for  you,  my  dear  boy!     How 
dreadfully  they  starch  your  cuffs.     It  is  so  nice  to  do 
something  for  you  sometimes!" 
George  answered   her: 

"Well,    Mother,    and   how  have  you  been?" 
Over  Mrs.  Pendyce's  face  came  a  look  half-sorrow- 


I20  The  Country  House 

ful,  half-arch,  but  wholly  pathetic:  "What!  Is  it 
beginning  already?  Oh!  don't  put  me  away  from 
you!"  she  seemed  to  say. 

"Very  well,  thank  you,  dear;  and  you?" 

George  did  not  meet  her  eyes. 

" So-so, "  he  said.  "I  took  rather  a  nasty  knock 
over  the  'City'  last  week!" 

"Is  that  a  race?"  asked  Mrs.  Pendyce.  And  by 
some  secret  process  she  knew  that  he  had  hurried  out 
that  piece  of  bad  news  to  divert  her  attention  from  an- 
other subject,  for  George  had  never  been  a  **  cry-baby." 

She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa  and  though 
the  gong  was  about  to  sound,  incited  him  to  dawdle 
and  stay  with  her. 

"And  have  you  any  other  news,  dear?  It  seems 
such  an  age  since  we  've  seen  you.  I  think  I  've 
told  you  all  our  budget  in  my  letters.  You  know 
there  's  going  to  be  another  event  at  the  Rectory?" 

"Another?  I  passed  Barter  on  the  way  up.  I 
thought  he  looked  a  bit  blue!" 

A  look  of  pain  shot  into  Mrs.  Pendyce's  eyes. 

"Oh!  I'm  afraid  that  couldn't  have  been  the 
reason,  dear,"  and  she  stopped;  but,  to  still  her  own 
fears  hurried  on  again. 

"If  I  *d  known  you  'd  been  coming,  I  'd  have  kept 
Cecil  Tharp.  Vic  has  had  such  dear  little  puppies. 
Would  you  like  one?  They've  all  got  that  nice  black 
smudge  round  the  eye?" 

She  was  watching  him  as  only  a  mother  can  watch; 
stealthily,  minutely,  longingly,  every  little  movement, 
every  little  change  of  his  face,  and  more  than  all, 
that  fixed  something  behind,  which  showed  the 
abiding  temper  and  condition  of  his  heart. 

"  Something  is  making  him  unhappy, "  she  thought. 


Influence  of  Rev.  Hussell  Barter  121 

**  He  is  changed  since  I  saw  him  last,  and  I  can't  get  at 
it,  I  seem  to  be  so  far  from  him — so  far!" 

And  somehow  she  knew  he  had  come  down  this 
evening  because  he  was  lonely  and  unhappy,  and 
instinct  had  made  him  turn  to  her. 

But  she  knew  that  trying  to  get  nearer,  would 
only  make  him  put  her  farther  off,  and  she  could  not 
bear  this,  so  she  asked  him  nothing  and  bent  all  her 
strength  on  hiding  from  him  the  pain  she  felt. 

She  went  down-stairs  with  her  arm  in  his;  and 
leaned  very  heavily  on  it,  as  though  she  were  trying 
to  get  close  to  him  again,  and  forget  the  feeling  she 
had  had  all  that  winter — ^the  feeling  of  being  barred 
away,  the  feeling  of  secrecy  and  restraint. 

Mr.  Pendyce  and  the  two  girls  were  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Well,  George,"  said  the  Squire  drily,  "I  'm  glad 
you  *ve  come.  How  can  you  stick  in  London  at 
this  time  of  year !  Now  you  *re  down,  you  *d  better 
stay  a  couple  of  days,  I  want  to  take  you  round  the 
estate;  you  know  nothing  about  anything.  I  might 
die  at  any  moment,  for  all  you  can  tell.  Just  make 
up  your  mind  to  stay." 

George  gave  him  a  moody  look. 

** Sorry,"  he  said,  "I  've  got  an  engagement  in 
town!" 

Mr.  Pendyce  rose  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 

"That*  s  it,"  he  said;  **I  ask  you  to  do  a  simple 
thing  for  your  own  good — and — ^you  've  got  an  en- 
gagement! It  's  always  like  that,  and  your  mother 
backs  you  up.     Bee,  go  and  play  me  something. " 

The  Squire  could  not  bear  being  played  to,  but  it 
was  the  only  command  likely  to  be  obeyed  that  came 
into  his  head. 


122  The  Country  House 

The  absence  of  guests  made  little  difference  to  a 
ceremony  esteemed  at  Worsted  Skeynes  the  crowning 
blessing  of  the  day.  The  courses,  however,  were 
limited  to  seven,  and  champagne  was  not  drunk. 
The  Squire  drank  a  glass  or  so  of  claret,  for,  as  he 
said:  "My  dear  old  father  took  his  bottle  of  port 
every  night  of  his  life,  and  it  never  gave  him  a  twinge. 
If  I  were  to  go  on  at  that  rate  it  would  kill  me  in  a 
year!" 

His  daughters  drank  water.  Mrs.  Pendyce,  who 
cherished  a  secret  preference  for  champagne,  drank 
sparingly  of  a  Spanish  burgundy,  procured  for  her 
by  Mr.  Pendyce  at  a  very  reasonable  price,  and  corked 
between  meals  with  a  special  cork.  She  offered  it 
to  George. 
'    **Try  some  of  my  burgundy,  dear;  it  's  so  nice!" 

But  George  refused,  and  asked  for  whiskey  and 
soda,  glancing  at  the  butler,  who  brought  it  in  a  very 
yellow  state. 

Under  the  influence  of  dinner  the  Squire  recovered 
equanimity,  though  he  still  dwelt  somewhat  sadly 
on  the  future. 

"You  young  fellows,"  he  said,  with  a  friendly  look 
at  George,  "are  such  individualists.  You  make  a 
business  of  enjoying  yourselves.  With  your  piquet 
and  your  racing  and  your  billiards  and  what  not, 
you  '11  be  used  up  before  you  're  fifty.  You  don't 
let  your  imaginations  work.  A  green  old  age  ought 
to  be  your  ideal,  instead  of  which,  it  seems  to  be  a 
green  youth.  Ha!"  Mr.  Pendyce  looked  at  his 
daughters,  till  they  said: 

"Oh!  Father,  how  can  you?" 

Norah,  who  had  the  more  character  of  the  two 
added : 


Influence  of  Rev.  Hussell  Barter  123 

"Isn't  Father  rather  dreadful,  Mother?" 
But  Mrs.  Pendyce  was  looking  at  her  son.  She 
had  longed  so  many  evenings  to  see  him  sitting  there. 
''We'll  have  a  game  of  piquet  to-night,  George." 
George  looked  up  and  nodded  with  a  glum  smile. 
On  the  thick,  soft  carpet  round  the  table  the  butler 
and  second  footman  moved .  The  light  of  the  wax  can- 
dles fell  lustrous  and  subdued  on  the  silver  and  fruit 
and  flowers,  on  the  girls'  white  necks,  on  George's  well- 
coloured  face  and  glossy  shirt-front,  gleamed  in  the 
jewels  on  his  mother's  long  white  fingers,  showed  off 
the  Squire's  erect  and  still  spruce  figure;  the  air  was 
languorously  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  azaleas  and 
narcissus  bloom.  Bee,  with  soft  eyes,  was  thinking 
of  young  Tharp,  who  to-day  had  told  her  that  he 
loved  her,  and  wondering  if  father  would  object. 
Her  mother  was  thinking  of  George,  stealing  timid 
glances  at  his  moody  face.  There  was  no  sound  save 
the  tinkle  of  forks  and  the  voices  of  Norah  and  the 
Squire,  talking  of  little  things.  Outside,  through 
the  long  open  windows,  was  the  still,  wide  country; 
the  full  moon,  tinted  apricot  and  figured  like  a 
coin,  hung  above  the  cedar-trees,  and  by  her  light 
the  whispering  stretches  of  the  silent  fields  lay  half- 
enchanted,  half  asleep,  and  all  beyond  that  little 
ring  of  moonshine,  unfathomed  and  unknown,  was 
darkness — a  great  darkness  wrapping  from  their  eyes 
the  restless  world. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  SINISTER  NIGHT 

ON  the  day  of  the  big  race  at  Kempton  Park,  in 
which  the  Ambler,  starting  favourite,  was 
left  at  the  post,  George  Pendyce  had  just  put  his 
latch-key  in  the  door  of  the  room  he  had  taken  near 
Mrs.  Bellew,  when  a  man,  stepping  quickly  from  be- 
hind, said: 

"Mr.  George  Pendyce,  I  believe." 
George  turned:  "Yes;  what  do  you  want?'* 
The  man  put  into  George's  hand  a  long  envelope. 
"From  Messrs.  Frost  and  Tuckett. " 
George  opened  it  and  read  from  the  top  of  a  slip 
of  paper: 

•'Admiralty,  Probate,  and  Divorcb. 
"The  humble  petition  of  Jasi^er  Bellew " 

He  lifted  his  eyes  and  his  look  uncannily  impas- 
sive, unresenting,  unangered,  dogged,  caused  the  mes- 
senger to  drop  his  gaze  as  though  he  had  hit  a  man 
who  was  down. 

"Thanks.     Good  night!" 

He  shut  the  door,  and  read  the  document  through. 
It  contained  some  precise  details,  and  ended  in  a 
claim  for  damages;  and  George  smiled. 

Had  he  received  this  document  three  months  ago 
he  would  not  have  taken  it  thus.  Three  months 
ago  he  would  ha^^e  felt  with  rage  that  he  was  caught. 

ia4 


The  Sinister  Night  125 

Ilis  thoughts  would  have  run  thus:  "I  have  got  her 
into  a  mess;  I  have  got  myself  into  a  mess.  I  never 
thought  this  would  happen.  This  is  the  devil!  I 
must  see  some  one — ^I  must  stop  it.  There  must  be 
a  way  outl"  Having  but  little  imagination,  his 
thoughts  would  have  beaten  their  wings  against  this 
cage,  and  at  once  he  would  have  tried  to  act.  But 
this  was  not  three  months  ago;  and  now ! 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  and 
the  chief  feeling  in  his  heart  was  a  strange  hope,  a  sort 
of  funereal  gladness.  He  would  have  to  go  and  see 
her  at  once,  that  very  night;  an  excuse — ^no  need  to 
wait  in  here — ^to  wait — on  the  chance  6f  her  coming ! 

He  got  up  and  drank  some  whiskey,  then  went 
back  to  the  sofa  and  sat  down  again. 

"If  she  is  not  here  by  eight,"  he  thought,  "I  will 
go  round." 

Opposite  was  a  full-length  mirror,  and  he  turned 
to  the  wall  to  avoid  it.  There  was  fixed  on  his  face  a 
look  of  gloomy  determination,  as  though  he  were 
thinking:  "FU  show  them  all  that  I  *m*not  beaten 
yet." 

At  the  click  of  a  latch-key  he  scrambled  off  the  sofa, 
and  his  face  resumed  its  mask.  She  came  in  as  usual, 
dropped  her  opera  cloak,  and  stood  before  him  with 
bare  shoulders.  Looking  in  her  face,  he  wondered 
if  she  knew. 

"I  thought  I  'd  better  come,"  she  said;  "I  suppose 
you  *ve  had  the  same  charming  present!" 

George  nodded,  there  was  a  minute's  silence. 

*'It  *s  really  rather  funny.  I  'm  sorry  for  you, 
George!" 

George  laughed  too,  but  his  laugh  was  different, 

*M  will  do  all  I  can,"  he  said. 


126  The  Country  House 

Mrs.  Bellew  came  close  to  him. 

"I  've  seen  about  the  Kempton  race.  What 
shocking  luck!  I  suppose  you  've  lost  a  lot?  Poor 
boy!     It  never  rains  but  it  pours!" 

George  looked  down: 

''That  's  all  right;  nothing  matters  when  I  have 
you!" 

He  felt  her  arms  fasten  behind  his  neck,  but  they 
were  cool  as  marble;  he  met  her  eyes  and  they  were 
mocking  and  compassionate. 

Their  cab,  wheeling  into  the  main  thoroughfare 
joined  in  the  race  of  cabs  flying  as  for  life  toward  the 
East.  Past  the  Park,  where  the  trees  new-leafed  were 
swinging  their  skirts  like  ballet  dancers  in  the  wind ; 
past  the  Stoics'  and  the  other  clubs,  rattling,  jingling, 
jostling  for  the  lead,  shooting  past  omnibuses  that 
looked  cosy  in  the  half-light  with  their  lamps  and 
rows  of  figures  solemnly  opposed. 

At  Blafard's  the  tall  dark  young  waiter  took  her 
cloak  with  reverential  fingers;  the  little  wine  waiter 
smiled  below  the  suffering  in  his  eyes.  The  same 
red- shaded  lights  fell  on  her  arms  and  shoulders,  the 
same  flowers  of  green  and  yellow  grew  bravely  in 
the  same  blue  vases.  On  the  menu  were  written 
the  same  dishes.  The  same  idle  eye  peered  through 
the  chink  at  the  corner  of  the  red  blinds  with  its 
stare  of  apathetic  wonder. 

Often  during  that  dinner  George  looked  at  her 
face  by  stealth,  and  its  expression  baffled  him,  so 
careless  was  it.  And  unlike  her  mood  of  late,  that 
had  been  glum  and  cold,  she  was  in  the  wildest 
spirits.  ' 

People  looked  round  from  the  other  little  tables, 
alj  full  now  that  the  season  had  begun,  her  laugh  w^s 
9 


The  Sinister  Night  127 

so  infectious ;  and  George  felt  a  sort  of  disgust.  What 
was  it  in  this  woman  that  made  her  laugh  when  his 
own  heart  was  heavy?  But  he  said  nothing ;  he  dared 
not  even  look  at  her,  for  fear  his  eyes  should  show 
his  feeling. 

**  We  ought  to  be  squaring  our  accounts," — he 
thought, — ''  looking  things  in  the  face.  Something 
must  be  done — ^and  here  she  is,  laughing  and  making 
every  one  stare!"  Done!  But  what  could  be  done, 
when  it  was  all  like  quicksand? 

The  other  little  tables  emptied  one  by  one. 

"George,"  she  said,  *' take  me  somewhere  where 
we  can  dance!" 

George  stared  at  her. 

"My  dear  girl,  how  can  I  ?     There  is  no  such  place  I " 

"Take  me  to  your  Bohemians!" 

"You  can't  possibly  go  to  a  place  like  that." 

"Why  not?  Who  cares  where  we  go,  or  what 
we  do?" 

"I  care!" 

'  Ah !  My  dear  George,  you  and  your  sort  are  only 
half  alive!" 

Sullenly   George  answered: 

"What   do   you   take   me  for?     A  cad?" 

But  there  was  fear,  not  anger,  in  his  heart. 

"Well,  then,  let  's  drive  into  the  East  End.  Foi 
goodness'  sake,  let  'sdo  something  not  quite  proper!" 

They  took  a  hansom  and  drove  East.  It  was  the 
first  time  either  had  ever  been  in  that  unknown 
land. 

"Close  your  cloak,  dear;  it  looks  odd  down  here." 

Mrs.  Bellew  laughed. 

"You'll  be  just  like  your  father  when  you're 
sixty,  George." 


128  The  Country  House 

And  she  opened  her  cloak  the  wider.  Round  a 
barrel-organ  at  the  corner  of  a  street  were  girls  in 
bright   colours   dancing. 

She  called  to  the  cabman  to  stop. 

"Let  's  watch  those  children!" 

"You  '11  only  make  a  show  of  us." 

Mrs.  Bellew  put  her  hands  on  the  cab  door. 

"I  've  a  good  mind  to  get  out  and  dance  with 
them!" 

"  You  '  re  mad  to-night, "  said  George.    *'  Sit  still ! " 

He  stretched  out  his  arm  and  barred  her  way.  The 
passers-by  looked  curiously  at  the  little  scene.  A 
crowd  began  to  collect. 

"Go  on!"  cried  George. 

There  was  a  cheer  from  the  crowd;  the  driver 
whipped  his  horse;  they  darted  East  again. 

It  was  striking  twelve  when  the  cab  put  them  down 
at  last  near  the  old  church  on  Chelsea  Embankment, 
and  they  had  hardly  spoken  for  an  hour. 

And  all  that  hour  George  was  feeling: 

"This  is  the  woman  for  whom  I  've  given  it  all  up. 
This  is  the  woman  to  whom  I  shall  be  tied.  This  is 
the  woman  I  cannot  tear  myself  away  from.  If  I 
could,  I  would  never  see  her  again.  But  I  can't  live 
without  her.  I  must  go  on  suffering  when  she  's 
with  me,  suffering  when  she  's  away  from  me.  And 
God  knows  how  it  's  all  to  end!" 

He  took  her  hand  in  the  darkness;  it  was  cold  and 
unresponsive  as  a  stone.  He  tried  to  see  her  face, 
but  could  read  nothing  in  those  greenish  eyes  that 
stared  before  them  like  a  cat's  into  the  darkness. 

When  the  cab  was  gone,  they  stood  looking  at  each 
other  by  the  light  of  a  street  lamp.  And  George 
thought : 


The  Sinister  Night  129 

"So  I  must  leave  her  like  this,  and  what  then?** 

She  put  her  latch-key  in  the  door,  and  turned  round 
to  him.  In  the  silent,  empty  street,  where  the  wind 
was  rusthng  and  scraping  round  the  corners  of  tall 
houses,  and  the  lamplight  flickered,  her  face  and 
figure  were  so  strange,  motionless.  Sphinx-like.  Only 
her  eyes  seemed  alive,  fastened  on  his  own. 

"Good- night!"  he  muttered. 

She  beckoned. 

"Take  what  you  can  of  me,  George!"  she  said. 


M 


CHAPTER  IV 

MR.  PEN®YCE's  head 

R.  PENDYCE'S*'head,  seen  from  behind  at  his 
library  bureau,  where  it  was  his  practice  to 
spend  most  mornings  from  half-past  nine  to  eleven 
or  even  twelve,  was  observed  to  be  of  a  shape  to  throw 
no  small  light  upon  his  class  and  character.  Its 
contour  was  almost  national.  Bulging  at  the  back, 
and  sloping  rapidly  to  a  thin  and  wiry  neck,  narrow 
between  the  ears  and  across  the  brow,  prominent 
in  the  jaw,  the  length  of  a  line  drawn  from  the  back 
headland  to  the  promontory  at  the  chin  would  have 
been  extreme.  Upon  the  observer  there  was  im- 
pressed the  conviction  that  here  was  a  skull  denoting, 
by  surplusage  of  length,  great  precision  of  character 
and  disposition  to  action,  and,  by  deficiency  of 
breadth,  a  narrow  tenacity  that  might  at  times  amount 
to  wrong-headedness.  The  thin  cantankerous  neck, 
on  which  little  hairs  grew  low,  and  the  intelligent 
ears,  confirmed  this  impression;  and  when  his  face, 
with  its  clipped  hair,  dry  rosiness,  into  which  the 
east  wind  had  driven  a  shade  of  yellow  and  the  sun 
a  shade  of  brown,  and  grey,  rather  discontented  eyes, 
came  into  view,  the  observer  had  no  longer  any  hesi- 
tation in  saying  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  an 
Englishman,  a  landed  proprietor,  and,  but  for  Mr. 
Pendyce's  rooted  belief  to  the  contrary,  an  individ- 
ualist. His  head,  indeed,  was  like  nothing  so  much 
as  the  Admiralty  Pier  at  Dover — ^that  strange  long 


Mr.  Pendyce's  Head  131 

narrow  thing,  with  a  slight  twist  or  bend  at  the  end 
which  first  disturbs  the  comfort  of  foreigners  arriving 
on  these  shores,  and  strikes  them  with  a  sense  of 
wonder  and  dismay. 

He  sat  very  motionless  at  his  bureau,  leaning  a 
little  over  his  papers  like  a  man  to  whom  things  do 
not  come  too  easily;  arid  every  now  and  then  he 
stopped  to  refer  to  the  calendar  at  his  left  hand,  or 
to  a  paper  in  one  of  the  many  pigeon-holes.  Open 
and  almost  out  of  reach,  was  a  back  volume  of  Punch, 
of  which  periodical,  as  a  landed  proprietor,  he  had 
an  almost  professional  knowledge.  In  leisure  mo- 
ments it  was  one  of  his  chief  recreations  to  peruse 
lovingly  those  aged  pictures,  and  at  the  image  of 
John  Bull  he  never  failed  to  think:  "Fancy  making 
an  Englishman  out  a  fat  fellow  like  that!" 

It  was  as  though  the  artist  had  offered  an  insult 
to  himself,  passing  him  over  as  the  type,  and  con^ 
ferring  that  distinction  on  some  one  fast  going  out 
of  fashion.  The  Rector,  whenever  he  heard  Mr. 
Pendyce  say  this,  strenuously  opposed  him,  for  he 
was  himself  of  a  square,  stout  build,  and  getting 
stouter. 

With  all  their  aspirations  to  the  character  of  typical 
Englishmen,  Mr.  Pendyce  and  Mr.  Barter  thought 
themselves  far  from  the  old  beef  and  beer,  port  and 
pigskin  types  of  the  Georgian  and  early  Victorian 
era.  They  were  men  of  the  world,  abreast  of  the 
times,  who  by  virtue  of  a  public  school  and  'Varsity 
training  had  acquired  a  manner,  a  knowledge  of 
men  and  affairs,  a  standard  of  thought  on  which  it 
had  really  never  been  needful  to  improve.  Both 
of  them,  but  especially  Mr.  Pendyce,  kept  up  with 
all  that  was  going  forward  by  visiting  the  Metropolis 


132  The  Country  House 

six  or  seven  or  even  eight  times  a  year.  On  these 
occasions  they  rarely  took  their  wives,  having  almost 
always  important  business  in  hand — old  College 
Church,  or  Conservative  dinners,  cricket- matches, 
Church  Congress,  the  Gaiety  Theatre,  and  for  Mr. 
Barter  the  Lyceum.  Both,  too,  belonged  to  clubs — 
the  Rector  to  a  comfortable,  old-fashioned  place 
where  be  could  get  a  rubber  without  gambling,  and 
Mr.  Pendyce  to  the  Temple  of  things  as  they  were, 
as  became  a  man  who,  having  turned  all  social  pro- 
blems over  in  his  mind,  had  decided  that  there  was 
no  real  safety  but  in  the  past. 

They  always  went  up  to  London  grumbling,  but 
this  was  necessary,  and  indeed  salutary,  because  of 
their  wives;  and  they  always  came  back  grumbling, 
because  of  their  livers,  which  a  good  country  rest 
always  fortunately  reduced  in  time  for  the  next 
visit.  In  this  way  they  kept  themselves  free  from 
the  taint  of  provincialism. 

In  the  silence  of  his  master's  study,  the  spaniel 
John,  whose  head,  too,  was  long  and  narrow,  had 
placed  it  over  his  paw,  as  though  suffering  from 
that  silence,  and  when  his  master  cleared  his 
throat  he  fluttered  his  tail  and  turned  up  an  eye 
with  a  little  moon  of  white,  without  stirring  his 
chin. 

The  clock  ticked  at  the  end  of  the  long,  narrow 
room;  the  sunlight  through  the  long,  narrow  windows 
fell  on  the  long,  narrow  backs  of  books  in  the  glassed 
book-case  that  took  up  the  whole  of  one  wall;  and 
this  room,  with  its  slightly  leathery  smell,  seemed  a 
fitting  place  for  some,  long,  narrow  ideal  to  be  worked 
out  to  its  long  and  narrow  ending. 

But  Mr.  Pendyce  would  have  scouted  th^  notion 


Mr.  Pendyce's  Head  i33 

of  an  ending  to  ideals  having  their  basis  in  the  heredi- 
tary principle. 

**Let  me  do  my  duty  and  carry  on  the  estate  as 
my  dear  old  father  did,  and  hand  it  down  to  my  son 
enlarged  if  possible,"  was  sometimes  his  saying,  very, 
very  often  his  thought,  not  seldom  his  prayer.  "I 
want  to  do  no  more  than  that. " 

The  times  were  bad  and  dangerous.  There  was 
every  chance  of  a  Radical  Government  being  returned, 
and  the  country  going  to  the  dogs.  It  was  but  natural 
and  himian  that  he  should  pray  for  the  survival  of 
the  forna  of  things  which  he  believed  in  and  knew, 
the  form  of  things  that  had  been  bequeathed  to  him, 
and  was  embodied  in  the  words  "Horace  Pendyce." 
It  was  not  his  habit  to  welcome  new  ideas.  A  new 
idea  invading  the  country  of  the  Squire's  mind  was 
at  once  met  with  a  rising  of  the  whole  population,  and 
either  prevented  from  landing,  or  if  already  on  shore 
instantly  taken  prisoner.  In  course  of  time  the 
unhappy  creature,  causing  its  squeaks  and  groans 
to  penetrate  the  prison  walls,  would  be  released  from 
sheer  humaneness  and  love  of  a  quiet  life,  and  even 
allowed  certain  privileges,  remaining,  however,  "that 
poor,  queer  devil  of  a  foreigner."  One  day,  in  an 
inattentive  moment,  the  natives  would  suffer  it  to 
marry,  or  find  that  in  some  disgraceful  way  it  had 
caused  the  birth  of  children  unrecognised  by  law; 
and  their  respect  for  the  accomplished  fact,  for  some- 
thing that  already  lay  in  the  past,  would  then  prevent 
their  trying  to  unmarry  it,  or  restoring  the  children 
to  an  unborn  state,  and  very  gradually  they  would 
tolerate  this  intrusive  brood.  Such  was  the  process 
of  Mr.  Pendyce's  mind.  Indeed,  like  the  spaniel 
John,  a  dog  of  conservative  instincts,  at  the  approach 


134  The  Country  House 

of  any  strange  thing,  he  placed  himself  in  the  way, 
barking  and  showing  his  teeth;  and  sometimes  truly 
he  suffered  at  the  thought  that  one  day  Horace 
Pendyce  would  no  longer  be  there  to  bark.  But  not 
often,  for  he  had  not  much  imagination. 

All  the  morning  he  had  been  working  at  that  old 
vexed  subject  of  Common  Rights  on  Worsted  Scotton, 
which  his  father  had  fenced  in  and  taught  him  once 
for  all  to  believe  was  part  integral  of  Worsted  Skeynes. 
The  matter  was  almost  beyond  doubt,  for  the  cot- 
tagers— ^in  a  poor  way  at  the  time  of  the  fencing, 
owing  to  the  price  of  bread — ^had  looked  on  apatheti- 
cally till  the  very  last  year  required  by  law  to  give 
the  old  Squire  squatter's  rights,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
that  man.  Peacock's  father,  had  made  a  gap  in  the 
fence  and  driven  in  beasts,  which  had  reopened  the 
whole  unfortunate  question.  This  had  been  in  '65, 
and  ever  since  there  had  been  continual  friction 
bordering  on  a  law  suit.  Mr.  Pendyce  never  for 
a  moment  allowed  it  to  escape  his  mind  that  the  man 
Peacock  was  at  the  bottom  of  it  all;  for  it  was  his 
way  to  discredit  all  principles  as  ground  of  action,  and 
to  refer  everything  to  facts  and  persons;  except, 
indeed,  when  he  acted  himself,  when  he  would  some- 
what proudly  admit  that  it  was  on  principle.  He 
never  thought  or  spoke  upon  an  abstract  question; 
partly  because  his  father  had  avoided  them  before 
him,  partly  because  he  had  been  discouraged  from 
doing  so  at  school,  but  mainly  because  he  tempera- 
mentally took  no  interest  in  such  unpractical  things. 

It  was,  therefore,  a  source  of  wonder  to  him  that 
tenants  of  his  own  should  be  ungrateful.  He  did 
his  duty  by  them,  as  the  Rector,  in  whose  keeping 
were  their  souls,  would  have  been  the  first  to  affirm. 


Mr.  Pendyce's  Head  135 

the  books  of  his  estate  showed  this,  recording  year 
by  year  an  average  gross  profit  of  some  sixteen  hund- 
red pounds,  and  (deducting  raw  material  incidental 
to  the  upkeep  of  Worsted  Skeynes),  a  net  loss  of 
three. 

In  less  earthly  matters,  too,  such  as  non-attendance 
at  church,  a  predisposition  to  poaching,  or  any  in- 
clination to  moral  laxity,  he  could  say  with  a  clear 
conscience  that  the  Rector  was  sure  of  his  support. 
A  striking  instance  had  occurred  within  the  last 
month,  when,  discovering  that  his  underkeeper,  an 
excellert  man  at  his  work,  had  got  into  a  scrape 
with  the  postman's  wife,  he  had  given  the  young 
fellow  notice,  and  cancelled  the  lease  of  his  cottage. 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  plan  of  the  estate  fastened 
to  the  wall,  which  he  unrolled  by  pulling  a  green  silk 
cord,  and  stood  there,  scrutinising  it  carefully  and 
placing  his  finger  here  and  there.  His  spaniel  rose 
too,  and  settled  himself  unobstrusively  on  his  mas- 
ter's foot.  Mr.  Pendyce  moved  and  trod  on  him. 
The  spaniel  yelped. 

"D n  the  dog!     Oh,  poor  fellow,  John!"  said 

Mr.  Pendyce.  He  went  back  to  his  seat,  but  since 
he  had  identified  the  wrong  spot  he  was  obliged  in  a 
minute  to  return  again  to  the  plan.  The  spaniel 
John,  cherishing  the  hope  that  he  had  been  justly 
treated,  approached  in  a  half- circle,  fluttering  his 
tail ;  he  had  scarcely  reached  Mr.  Pendyce's  foot  when 
the  door  was  opened,  and  the  first  footman  brought 
in  a  letter  on  a  silver  salver. 

Mr.  Pendyce  took  the  note,  read  it,  turned  to  his 
bureau,  and  said:  "No  answer." 

He  sat  staring  at  this  document  in  the  silent  room, 
and  over  his  face  in  turn  passed  anger,  alarm,  dis- 


136  The  Country  House 

trust,  bewilderment.  He  had  not  the  power  of 
making  very  clear  his  thought,  except  by  speaking 
aloud,  and  he  muttered  to  himself.  The  spaniel 
John,  who  still  nurtured  a  belief  that  he  had  sinned, 
came  and  lay  down  very  close  against  his  leg. 

Mr.  Pendyce,  never  having  reflected  profoundly  on 
the  working  morality  of  his  times,  had  the  less  diffi- 
culty in  accepting  it.  Of  violating  it  he  had  practi- 
cally no  opportunity,  and  this  rendered  his  position 
stronger.  It  was  from  habit  and  tradition  rather 
than  from  principle  and  conviction  that  he  was  a  man 
of  good  moral  character. 

And  as  he  sat  reading  this  note  over  and  over,  he 
suffered  from  a  -sense  of  nausea. 

It  was  couched  in  these  terms: 

"The  Firs, 

*'May  20. 
''Dear  Sir, 

"You  may  or  may  not  have  heard  that  I  have 
made  your  son,  Mr.  George  Pendyce,  co-respondent 
in  a  divorce  suit  against  my  wife.  Neither  for  your 
sake  nor  your  son's,  but  for  the  sake  of  Mrs.  Pendyce, 
who  is  the  only  woman  in  these  parts  that  I  respect, 
I  will  withdraw  the  suit  if  your  son  will  give  his  word 
not  to  see  my  wife  again. 

"Please  send  me  an  early  answer, 
"lam, 

"Your  obedient  servant, 

"Jaspar    Bellew.'* 

The  acceptance  of  tradition  (and  to  accept  it  was 
suitable  to  the  Squire's  temperament)  is  occasionally 
marred  by  the  impingement  of  tradition  on  private 
life  and  comfort.     It  was  legendary  in  his  class  that 


Mr.  Pendyce's  Head  i37 

young  men's  peccadillos  must  be  accepted  xvith  a 
certain  indulgence.  They  would,  he  said,  be  young 
men.  They  must,  he  would  remark,  sow  their  wild 
oats.  Such  was  his  theory.  The  only  difficulty  he 
now  had  was  in  applying  it  to  his  own  particular 
case,  a  difficulty  felt  by  others  in  times  past,  and  to 
be  felt  again  in  times  to  come.  But  since  he  was  not 
a  philosopher,  he  did  not  perceive  the  inconsistency 
between  his  theory  and  his  dismay.  He  saw  his 
universe  reeling  before  that  note,  and  he  was  not  a 
man  to  suffer  tamely;  he  felt  that  others  ought  to 
suffer  too.  It  was  monstrous  that  a  fellow  like  this 
Bellew,  a  loose  fish,  a  drunkard,  a  man  who  had 
nearly  run  over  him,  should  have  it  in  his  power  to 
trouble  the  serenity  of  Worsted  Skeynes.  It  was 
like  his  impudence  to  bring  such  a  charge  against 

his  son.     It  was  like  his  d d  impudence!     And 

going  abruptly  to  the  bell,  he  trod  on  his  spaniel's 
ear. 

"D n  the  dog!    Oh,  poor  fellow,  John ! "     But 

the  spaniel  John,  convinced  at  last  that  he  had  sinned, 
hid  himself  in  a  far  comer  whence  he  could  see  nothing, 
and  pressed  his  chin  closely  to  the  ground. 

"Ask  your  mistress  to  come  here." 

Standing  by  the  hearth,  waiting  for  his  wife,  the 
Squire  displayed  to  greater  advantage  than  ever 
the  shape  of  his  long  and  narrow  head;  his  neck  had 
grown  conspicuously  redder;  his  eyes,  like  those  of 
an  offended  swan,  stabbed,  as  it  were,  at  everything 
they  saw. 

It  was  not  seldom  that  Mrs.  Pendyce  was  sum- 
moned to  the  study  to  hear  him  say:  "I  want  to  ask 
your  advice.  So-and-so  has  done  such  and  such.  .  • 
I  have  made  up  my  mind. " 


13S  The  Country  House 

She  came,  therefore,  in  a  few  minutes.  In  com- 
pliance with  his,  "Look  at  that,  Margery,"  she  read 
the  note,  and  gazed  at  him  with  distress  in  her  eyes, 
and  he  looked  back  at  her  with  wrath  in  his.  For 
this  was  tragedy. 

Not  to  every  one  is  it  given  to  take  a  wide  view  of 
things — ^to  look  over  the  far,  pale  streams,  the  purple 
heather,  and  moonlit  pools  of  the  wild  marches, 
where  reeds  stand  black  against  the  sundown,  and 
from  long  distance  comes  the  cry  of  a  curlew — ^nor  to 
every  one  to  gaze  from  steep  cliffs  over  the  wine- 
dark,  shadowy  sea — or  from  high  mountain- sides 
to  see  crowned  chaos,  smoking  with  mist,  or  gold- 
bright  in  the  sun. 

To  most  it  is  given  to  watch  assiduously  a  row  of 
houses,  a  back-yard,  or,  like  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Pendyce, 
the  green  fields,  trim  coverts,  and  Scotch  garden  of 
Worsted  Skeynes.  And  on  that  horizon  the  citation 
of  their  eldest  son  to  appear  in  the  Divorce  Court 
loomed  like  a  cloud,  heavy  with  destruction. 

As  far  as  such  an  event  could  be  realised — ^imagina- 
tion at  Worsted  Skeynes  was  not  too  vivid — ^it  spelled 
ruin  to  an  harmonious  edifice  of  ideas  and  prejudice, 
and  aspiration.  It  would  be  no  use  to  say  of  that 
event,  "What  does  it  matter?  Let  people  think 
what  they  like,  talk  as  they  like."  At  Worsted 
Skeynes  and  (Worsted  Skeynes  was  every  country 
house)  there  was  but  one  set  of  people,  one  church, 
one  pack  of  hounds,  one  everything.  The  import- 
ance of  a  clear  escutcheon  was  too  great.  And  they 
who  had  lived  together  for  thirty- four  years  looked 
at  each  other  with  a  new  expression  in  their  eyes; 
their  feelings  were  for  once  the  same.  But  since  it 
is  always  the  man  who  has  the  nicer  sense  of  honour, 


Mr.  Pendyce's  Head  139 

their  thoughts  were  not  the  same,  for  Mr.  Pendyce 
was  thinking:  "I  won't  believe  it — disgracing  us  all!" 
and  Mrs.  Pendyce  was  thinking:  **  My  boy!" 

It  was  she  who  spoke  first. 

"Oh,  Horace!" 

The  sound  of  her  voice  restored  the  Squire's  forti- 
tude. 

"There  you  go,  Margery!  D' you  mean  to  say 
you  believe  what  this  fellow  says?  He  ought  to  be 
horsewhipped.  He  knows  my  opinion  of  him.  It  's 
a  piece  of  his  confounded  impudence !  He  nearly 
ran  over  me,  and  now " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  broke   in: 

"But,  Horace,  I'm  afraid  it  's  true!  Ellen  Mai- 
den  " 

"Ellen     Maiden?"     said     Mr.     Pendyce.     "What 

business    has    she "     He    was     silent,     staring 

gloomily  at  the  plan  of  Worsted  Skeynes,  still  un- 
rolled, like  an  emblem  of  all  there  was  at  stake.  "If 
George  has  really,"  he  burst  out,  "he  's  a  greater 
fool  than  I  took  him  for !     A  fool  ?     He  's  a  knave ! ' 

Again  he  was  silent. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  flushed  at  that  word,  and  bit  her 
lips. 

"George  could  never  be  a  knave!"  she  said. 

Mr.  Pendyce  answered  heavily: 

"Disgracing  his  name!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  bit  deeper  into  her  lips. 

"Whatever  he  has  done,"  she  said,  "George  is 
sure  to  have  behaved  like  a  gentleman!" 

An  angry  smile  twisted  the  Squire's  mouth. 

"Just  like  a  woman!"  he  said. 

But  the  smile  died  away,  and  on  both  their  faces 
came  a  helpless  look.     Like  people  who  have  lived  to- 


I40  The  Country  House 

gether  without  real  sympathy — ^though,  indeed,  they 
had  long  ceased  to  be  conscious  of  that — now  that 
something  had  occurred  in  which  their  interests  were 
actually  at  one,  they  were  filled  with  a  sort  of  sur- 
prise. It  was  no  good  to  differ.  Differing,  even 
silent  differing,  would  not  help  their  son. 

"I  shall  write  to  George,"  said  Mr.  Pendyce  at 
last.  "  I  shall  believe  nothing  till  I  've  heard  from 
him.     He  '11  tell  us  the  truth,  I  suppose." 

There  was  a  quaver  in  his  voice. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  answered  quickly: 

"Oh,  Horace,  be  careful  what  you  say!  I  'm  sure 
he  is  suffering!" 

Her  gentle  soul,  disposed  to  pleasure,  was  suffering, 
too,  and  the  tears  stole  up  in  her  eyes.  Mr.  Pendyce's 
sight  was  too  long  to  see  them.  The  infirmity  had 
been  growing  on  him  ever  since  his  marriage. 

"I  shall  say  what  I  think  right, "  he  said.  *'  I  shall 
take  time  to  consider  what  I  shall  say;  I  won't  be 
hurried  by  this  ruffian. " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  wiped  her  lips  with  her  lace-edged 
handkerchief. 

"I  hope  you  will  show  me  the  letter,"  she  said. 

The  Squire  looked  at  her,  and  he  realised  that  she 
was  trembling  and  very  white,  and,  though  this  irri- 
tated him,  he  answered  almost  kindly: 

"It  's  not  a  matter  for  you,  my  dear. " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  took  a  step  towards  him;  her  gentle 
face  expressed  a  strange  determination. 

"He  is  my  son,  Horace,  as  well  as  yours." 

Mr.  Pendyce  turned  round  uneasily. 

"It  *s  no  use  your  getting  nervous,  Margery.  I 
shall  do  what  's  best.  You  women  lose  your  heads. 
That  d d  fellow  's  lying!     If  he  is  n't " 


Mr.  Pendyce's  Head  141 

At  these  words  the  spaniel  John  rose  from  his 
comer  and  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  floor.  He 
stood  there  curved  in  a  half- circle,  and  looked  darkly 
at  his  master. 

"Confound  it!"  said  Mr.  Pendyce.  "It's— it's 
damnable!" 

And  as  if  answering  for  all  that  depended  on 
Worsted  Skeynes,  the  spaniel  John  deeply  wagged 
that  which  had  been  left  him  of  his  tail. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  came  nearer  still. 

"If  George  refuses  to  give  you  that  promise,  what 
will  you  do,  Horace?" 

Mr.  Pendyce  stared. 

"Promise?    What  promise?'* 

Mrs.  Pendyce  thrust  forward  the  note. 

"This  promise  not  to  see  her  again." 

Mr.  Pendyce  motioned  it  aside. 

"I  '11  not  be  dictated  to  by  that  fellow  Bellew," 
he  said.  Then,  by  an  afterthought:  "It  won't  do  to 
give  him  a  chance.  George  must  promise  me  that 
in  any  case. " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  pressed  her  lips  together. 

"But  do  you  think  he  will?" 

"Think— think  who  will?  Think  he  will  what? 
Why  can't  you  express  yourself,  Margery?  If  George 
has  really  got  us  into  this  mess  he  must  get  us  out 
again." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  flushed. 

"He  would  never  leave  her  in  the  lurch!" 

The  Squire  said  angrily : 

"Lurch!  Who  said  anything  about  lurch?  He 
owes  it  to  her.  Not  that  she  deserves  any  considera- 
tion, if  she  's  been You  don't  mean  to  say  you 

think  he  '11  refuse?     He  'd  never  be  such  a  donkey  I" 


142  The  Country  House 

Mrs.  Pendyce  raised  her  hands  and  made  what  for 
her  was  a  passionate  gesture. 

"Oh,  Horace!"  she  said;  "you  don't  understand. 
He  's  in  love  with  her!'' 

Mr.  Pendyce 's  lower  lip  trembled,  a  sign  with  him 
of  excitement  or  emotion.  All  the  conservative 
strength  of  his  nature,  all  the  immense  dumb  force  of 
belief  in  established  things,  all  that  stubborn  hatred 
and  dread  of  change,  that  incalculable  power  of 
imagining  nothing,  that  since  the  beginning  of  time 
had  made  Horace  Pendyce  the  arbiter  of  his  land, 
rose  up  within  his  sorely  tried  soul. 

"What  on  earth  's  that  to  do  with  it!"  he  cried  in 
a  rage.  "You  women!  You've  no  sense  of  any- 
thing! Romantic,  idiotic,  immoral — I  don't  know 
what  you  're  at.  For  God's  sake,  don't  go  putting 
ideas  into  his  head." 

At  this  outburst  Mrs.  Pendyce's  face  became  rigid; 
only  the  flicker  of  her  eyelids  betrayed  how  her  nerves 
were  quivering.  Suddenly  she  threw  her  hands  up 
to  her  ears. 

"Horace!"  she  cried,  "do Oh,  poor  John!" 

The  Squire  had  stepped  hastily  and  heavily  on  to  his 
dog's  paw.  The  creature  gave  a  grievous  howl.  Mr. 
Pendyce  went  down  on  his  knees,  and  raised  the 
limb. 

"Damn  the  dog!"  he  stuttered.  "Oh,  poor  fellow! 
John!" 

And  the  two  long  and  narrow  heads  for  a  moment 
were  close  together. 


CHAPTER  V 

RECTOR    AND    SQUIRE 

THE  efforts  of  social  man,  directed  from  im- 
memorial time  towards  the  stability  of  things, 
have  culminated  in  Worsted  Skeynes.  Beyond  com- 
mercial competition — ^for  the  estate  no  longer  paid 
its  way — crystallised  out  of  the  power  of  expansion, 
set  with  tradition  and  sentiment,  it  was  an  undoubted 
jewel,  beyond  need  of  warranty.  Cradled  within  it 
were  all  those  hereditary  institutions  of  which  the 
country  was  most  proud,  and  Mr.  Pendyce  some- 
times saw  before  him  the  time  when,  for  services  to 
his  party,  he  should  call  himself  Lord  Worsted,  and 
after  his  own  death  continue  sitting  in  the  House  of 
Lords  in  the  person  of  his  son.  But  there  was  another 
feeling  in  the  Squire's  heart — ^the  air  and  the  woods 
and  the  fields  had  passed  into  his  blood  a  love  for 
this,  his  home,  and  the  home  of  his  fathers. 

And  so  a  terrible  unrest  pervaded  the  whole  house- 
hold after  the  receipt  of  Jaspar  Bellew's  note.  No- 
body was  told  anything,  yet  everybody  knew  there 
was  something;  and  each  after  his  fashion,  down  to 
the  very  dogs,  betrayed  their  sympathy  with  the 
master  and  mistress  of  the  house. 

Day  after  day  the  girls  wandered  about  the  new 
golf  course  knocking  the  balls  aimlessly;  it  was  all 
they  could  do.  Even  Cecil  Tharp,  who  had  received 
from  Bee  the  qualified  affirmative  natural  uncfer  the 
circumstances,  was  infected.     The  off  foreleg  of  her 


144  The  Country  House 

grey  mare  was  being  treated  by  a  process  he  had 
recently  discovered,  and  in  the  stables  he  confided 
to  Bee  that  the  dear  old  Squire  seemed  "off  his  feed"; 
he  did  not  think  it  was  any  good  worrying  him  at 
present.  Bee,  stroking  the  mare's  neck,  looked  at 
him  shyly  and  slowly. 

"  It 's  about  George, "  she  said ;  "  I  know  it 's  about 
George!     Oh,  Cecil!     I  do  wish  I  had  been  a  boy!" 

Young  Tharp  assented  in  spite  of  himself: 

"Yes;  it  must  be  beastly  to  be  a  girl. " 

A  faint  flush  coloured  Bee's  cheeks.  It  hurt  her 
a  little  that  he  should  agree;  but  her  lover  was 
passing  his  hand  down  the  mare's  shin. 

**  Father  is  rather  trying, "  she  said;  "  I  wish  George 
would  marry." 

Cecil  Tharp  raised  his  bullet  head;  his  blunt,  honest 
face  was  extremely  red  from  stooping. 

"Clean  as  a  whistle,"  he  said;  ''she's  all  right,  Bee. 
I  expect  George  has  too  good  a  time. " 

Bee  turned  her  face  away  and  murmured: 

"  /  should  loathe  living  in  London. "  And  she,  too, 
stooped  and  felt  the  mare's  shin. 

To  Mrs.  Pendyce  in  these  days  the  hours  passed 
with  incredible  slowness.  For  thirty  odd  years  she 
had  waited  at  once  for  everything  and  nothing;  she 
had,  so  to  say,  everything  she  could  wish  for,  and — 
nothing,  so  that  even  waiting  had  been  robbed  of 
poignancy;  but  to  wait  like  this,  in  direct  suspense, 
for  something  definite  was  terrible.  There  was  hardly 
a  moment  when  she  did  not  conjure  up  George, 
lonely  and  torn  by  conflicting  emotions;  for  to  her, 
long  paralysed  by  Worsted  Skeynes,  and  ignorant  of 
the  facts,  the  proportions  of  the  struggle  in  her  son's 
soul  appeared  Titanic;  her  mother  instinct  was  not 


I 


Rector  and  Squire  i45 

deceived  as  to  the  strength  of  his  passion.  Strange 
and  conflicting  were  the  sensations  with  which  she 
awaited  the  result;  at  one  moment  thinking,  "It  is 
madness;  he  must  promise — ^it  is  too  awful!"  at 
another,  "Ah!  but  how  can  he,  if  he  loves  her  so? 
It  is  impossible;  and  she,  too — ^ah!  how  awful  it  is!" 

Perhaps,  as  Mr.  Pendyce  had  said,  she  was  ro- 
mantic; perhaps  it  was  only  the  thought  of  the  pain 
her  boy  must  suffer.  The  tooth  was  too  big,  it  seemed 
to  her;  and,  as  in  old  days,  when  she  took  him  to 
Cornmarket  to  have  an  aching  tooth  out,  she  ever 
sat  with  his  hand  in  hers  while  the  little  dentist  pulled, 
and  ever  suffered  the  tug,  too,  in  her  own  mouth; 
so  now  she  longed  to  share  this  other  tug,  so  terrible, 
so  fierce. 

Against  Mrs.  Bellew  she  felt  only  a  sort  of  vague 
and  jealous  aching;  and  this  seemed  strange  even 
to  herself — but,  again,  perhaps  she  was  roman- 
tic. 

Now  it  was  that  she  found  the  value  of  routine; 
her  days  were  so  well  and  fully  occupied  that  anxiety 
was  forced  below  the  surface;  the  nights  were  far 
more  terrible;  for  then,  not  only  had  she  to  bear  her 
own  suspense,  but,  as  was  natural  in  a  wife,  the  fears 
of  Horace  Pendyce  as  well.  The  poor  Squire  found 
this  the  only  time  when  he  could  get  relief  from  worry ; 
he  came  to  bed  much  earlier  on  purpose.  By  dint 
of  reiterating  dreads  and  speculation  he  at  length 
obtained  some  rest.  Why  had  not  George  answered? 
What  was  the  fellow  about?  And  so  on  and  so  on, 
till,  by  sheer  monotony,  he  caused  in  himself  the 
need  for  slumber.  But  his  wife's  torments  lasted  till 
after  the  birds,  starting  with  a  sleepy  cheeping,  were 
at  full  morning  chorus.  Then  only,  turning  softly 
lo  -       • 


14^  The  Country  House 

for  fear  she  should  awaken  him,  the  poor  lady  fell 
asleep. 

For  George  had  not  answered. 

In  her  morning  visits  to  the  village  Mrs.  Pendyce 
found  herself,  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  begun 
this  practice,  driven  by  her  own  trouble  over  that 
line  of  diffident  distrust  which  had  always  divided 
her  from  the  hearts  of  her  poorer  neighbours.  She 
was  astonished  at  her  own  indelicacy;  asking  ques- 
tions, prying  into  their  troubles,  pushed  on  by  a 
secret  aching  for  distraction;  and  she  was  surprised 
how  well  they  took  it — ^how,  indeed,  they  seemed  to 
like  it,  as  though  they  knew  that  they  were  doing 
her  good.  In  one  cottage,  where  she  had  long  noticed 
with  pitying  wonder  a  white- faced,  black- eyed  girl, 
who  seemed  to  crouch  away  from  every  one,  she  even 
received  a  request.  It  was  delivered  with  terrified 
secrecy  in  a  back  yard,  out  of  Mrs.  Barter's  hearing. 

"Oh,  ma'am!  Get  me  away  from  here!  I  'm  in 
trouble — ^it's  comin',  and  I  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  shivered,  and  all  the  way  home  she 
thought:  "Poor  little  soul — ^poor  little  thing!"  rack- 
ing her  brains  to  whom  she  might  confide  this  case 
and  ask  for  a  solution;  and  something  of  the  white- 
faced,  black-eyed  girl's  terror  and  secrecy  fell  on 
her,  for  she  found  no  one — ^not  even  Mrs.  Barter, 
whose  heart,  though  soft,  belonged  to  the  Rector. 
Then  by  a  sort  of  inspiration,  she  thought  of  Gregory. 

"How  can  I  write  to  him,"  she  mused,  "when  my 


son- 


But  she  did  write,  for,  deep  down,  the  Totteridge 
instinct  felt  that  others  should  do  things  for  her; 
and  she  craved,  too,  to  allude,  however  distantly,  to 


Rector  and  Squire  147 

what  was  on  her  mind.  And,  under  the  Pendyce 
eagle  and  the  motto;  Strenuus  auredque  pennd^  thus 
her  letter  ran: 

"Dear  Grig, 

**Can  you  do  anything  for  a  poor  little  girl  in 
the  village  here  who  is  *  in  trouble '  ? — ^you  know 
what  I  mean.  It  is  such  a  terrible  crime  in  this  part 
of  the  country,  and  she  looks  so  wretched  and  fright- 
ened, poor  little  thing!  She  is  twenty  years  old. 
She  wants  a  hiding-place  for  her  misfortune,  and 
somewhere  to  go  when  it  is  over.  Nobody,  she  says, 
will  have  anything  to  do  with  her  where  they  know ; 
and,  really,  I  have  noticed  for  a  long  time  how  white 
and  wretched  she  looks,  with  great  black  frightened 
eyes.  I  don't  like  to  apply  to  our  Rector,  for  though 
he  is  a  good  fellow  in  many  ways,  he  has  such  strong 
opinions;  and,  of  course,  Horace  could  do  nothing. 
I  would  like  to  do  something  for  her,  and  I  could 
spare  a  little  money,  but  I  can't  find  a  place  for  her 
to  go,  and  that  makes  it  difficult.  She  seems  to  be 
haunted,  too,  by  the  idea  that  wherever  she  goes  it 
will  come  out.  Is  n't  it  dreadful?  Do  do  something, 
if  you  can.  I  am  rather  anxious  about  George.  I 
hope  the  dear  boy  is  well.  If  you  are  passing  his 
club  some  day  you  might  look  in  and  just  ask  after 
him.  He  is  sometimes  so  naughty  about  writing. 
I  wish  we  could  see  you  here,  dear  Grig;  the  country 
is  looking  beautiful  just  now — ^the  oak-trees  especially 
— ^and  the  apple-blossom  is  n't  over,  but  I  suppose 
you  are  too  busy.  How  is  Helen  Bellew?  Is  she 
in  town? 

"  Your  affectionate  cousin, 

"  Margery  Pendycb." 


14^  The  Country  House 

It  was  four  o'clock  this  same  afternoon  when  the 
second  groom,  very  much  out  of  breath,  informed 
the  butler  that  there  was  a  fire  at  Peacock's  farm. 
The  butler  repaired  at  once  to  the  library.  Mr. 
Pendyce,  who  had  been  on  horse-back  all  the  morning, 
was  standing  in  his  riding- clothes,  tired  and  depressed, 
before  the  plan  of  Worsted  Skeynes. 

"What  do  you  want,  Bester!" 

"There  is  a  fire  at  Peacock's  farm,  sir." 

Mr.  Pendyce  stared. 

"What?"  he  said.  "A  fire  in  broad  daylight! 
Nonsense!" 

"You  can  see  the  flames  from  the  front,  sir. " 

The  worn  and  querulous  look  left  Mr.  Pendyce's  face. 

"Ring  the  stable  bell!"  he  said.  "Tell  them  all 
to  run  with  buckets  and  ladders.  Send  Higson  off 
to  Cornmarket  on  the  mare.  Go  and  tell  Mr.  Barter, 
and  rouse  the  village.  Don't  stand  there — God 
bless  me!  Ring  the  stable  bell!"  And  snatching 
up  his  riding-crop  and  hat,  he  ran  past  the  butler, 
closely  followed  by  the  spaniel  John. 

Over  the  stile  and  along  the  footpath  which  cut 
diagonally  across  a  field  of  barley,  he  moved  at  a 
stiff  trot,  and  his  spaniel,  who  had  not  grasped  the 
situation,  frolicked  ahead  with  a  certain  surprise. 
The  Squire  was  soon  out  of  breath — it  was  twenty 
years  or  more  since  he  had  run  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 
He  did  not,  however,  relax  his  speed.  Ahead  of  him 
in  the  distance  ran  the  second  groom;  behind  him 
a  labourer  and  a  footman.  The  stable-bell  at  Worsted 
Skeynes  began  to  ring.  Mr.  Pendyce  crossed  the 
stile  and  struck  into  the  lane,  colliding  with  the 
Rector,  who  was  running,  too,  his  face  flushed  to 
the  colour  of  tomatoes.     They  ran  on  side    by  side. 


Rector  and  Squire  149 

"You  go  on!"  gasped  Mr.  Pendyce  at  last,  "and 
tell  them  I'm  coming." 

The  Rector  hesitated — ^he,  too,  was  very  much  out 
of  breath — ^and  started  again,  panting.  The  Squire, 
with  his  hand  to  his  side,  walked  painfully  on;  he 
had  run  himself  to  a  standstill.  At  a  gap  in  the 
corner  of  the  lane  he  suddenly  saw  pale-red  tongues 
of  flame  against  the  sunlight. 

"God  bless  me!"  he  gasped,  and  in  sheer  horror 
started  to  run  again.  Those  sinister  tongues  were 
licking  at  the  air  over  a  large  barn,  some  ricks,  and 
the  roofs  of  stables  and  outbuildings.  Half  a  dozen 
figures  were  dashing  buckets  of  water  on  the  flames. 
The  true  insignificance  of  their  efforts  did  not  pene- 
I  trate  the  Squire's  mind.  Trembling,  and  with  a 
sickening  pain  in  his  lungs,  he  threw  off  his  coat, 
wrenched  a  bucket  from  a  huge  agricultural  labourer, 
J  who  resigned  it  with  awe,  and  joined  the  string  of 
.  workers.  Peacock,  the  farmer,  ran  past  him;  his 
face  and  round  red  beard  were  the  colour  of  the 
flames  he  was  trying  to  put  out;  tears  dropped  con- 
tinually from  his  eyes  and  ran  down  that  fiery  face. 
His  wife,  a  little  dark  woman  with  a  twisted  mouth, 
was  working  like  a  demon  at  the  piunp.  Mr.  Pendyce 
gasped  to  her: 

"This  is  dreadful,  Mrs.  Peacock — ^this  is  dreadful!" 
Conspicuous  in  black  clothes  and  white  shirt- 
sleeves, the  Rector  was  hewing  with  an  axe  at  the 
boarding  of  a  cow-house,  the  door  end  of  which  was 
already  in  flames,  and  his  voice  could  he  heard  above 
the  tumult  shouting  directions  to  which  nobody 
paid  any  heed. 

"What's  in   that  cow-house?"  gasped   Mr.    Pen- 
dyce. 


I50  The  Country  House 


Mrs.  Peacock,  in  a  voice  harsh  with  rage  and  grief, 
answered : 

"It  's  the  old  horse  and  two  of  the  cows!" 

"God  bless  me!"  cried  the  Squire,  rushing  forward 
with  his  bucket. 

Some  villagers  came  running  up,  and  he  shouted 
to  these,  but  what  he  said  neither  he  nor  they  could 
tell.  The  shrieks  and  snortings  of  the  horse  and 
cows,  the  steady  whirr  of  the  flames,  drowned  all 
lesser  sounds.  Of  human  cries,  the  Rector's  voice 
alone  was  heard,  between  the  crashing  blows  of  his 
axe  upon  the  woodwork. 

Mr.  Pendyce  tripped;  his  bucket  rolled  out  of  his 
hand;  he  lay  where  he  had  fallen,  too  exhausted  to 
move.  He  could  still  hear  the  crash  of  the  Rector's 
axe,  the  sound  of  his  shouts.  Somebody  helped 
him  up,  and  tremblirg  so  that  he  could  hardly  stand, 
he  caught  an  axe  out  of  the  hand  of  a  strapping 
young  fellow  who  had  just  arrived,  and  placing  him- 
self by  the  Rector's  side,  swung  it  feebly  against 
the  boarding.  The  flames  and  smoke  now  filled  the 
whole  cow-house,  and  came  rushing  through  the  gap 
that  they  were  making.  The  Squire  and  the  Rec- 
tor stood  their  ground.  With  a  furious  blow  Mr. 
Barter  cleared  a  way.  A  cheer  rose  behind  them, 
but  no  beast  came  forth.  All  three  were  dead  in  the 
smoke  and  flames. 

The  Squire,  who  .could  see  in,  flung  down  his  axe, 
and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  The  Rector 
uttered  a  sound  like  a  deep  oath,  and  he,  too,  flung 
down  his  axe. 

Two  hours  later,  with  torn  and  blackened  clothes, 
the  Squire  stood  by  the  ruins  of  the  barn.  The  fire 
was  out,  but  the  ashes  were  still  smouldering.     The 


Rector  and  Squire  151 

spaniel  John,  anxious,  panting,  was  licking  his  mas- 
ter's boots,  as  though  begging  forgiveness  that  he 
had  been  so  frightened,  and  kept  so  far  away.  Yet 
something  in  his  eye  seemed  to  be  saying: 

"Must  you  really  have  these  fires,  master?'* 

A  black  hand  grasped  the  Sqidre's  arm,  a  hoarse 
voice  said: 

"I  shan't  forget,  Squire!" 

"God  bless  me.  Peacock!"  returned  Mr.  Pendyce, 
"that  's  nothing!     You  're  insured,  I  hope?" 

"Aye,  I  *m  insured;  but  it  's  the  beasts  I  'm  think- 
ing of!" 

"Ah!"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  gesture  of  horror. 

The  brougham  took  him  and  the  Rector  back 
together.  Under  their  feet  crouched  their  respective 
dogs,  faintly  growling  at  each  other.  A  cheer  from 
the  crowd  greeted  their  departure. 

They  started  in  silence,  deadly  tired.  Mr.  Pendyce 
said  suddenly: 

"I  can't  get  those  poor  beasts  out  of  my  head, 
Barter!" 

The  Rector  put  his  hand  up  to  his  eyes. 

"I  hope  to  God  I  shall  never  see  such  a  sight  again! 
Poor  brutes,  poor  brutes!" 

And  feeling  secretly  for  his  dog's  muzzle,  he  left 
his  hand  against  the  animal's  warm,  soft,  rubbery 
mouth,  to  be  licked  again  and  again. 

On  his  side  of  the  brougham  Mr.  Pendyce,  also 
unseen,  was  doing  precisely  the  same  thing. 

The  carriage  went  first  to  the  Rectory,  where  Mrs. 
Barter  and  her  children  stood  in  the  doorway.  The 
Rector  put  his  head  back  into  the  brougham  to  say: 

"Good  night,  Pendyce.  You  '11  be  stiff  to-morrow, 
I  shall  get  my  wife  to  rub  me  with  Elliman!" 


152  The  Country  House 

Mr.  Pendyce  nodded,  raised  his  hat,  and  the  car^ 
riage  went  on.  Leaning  back,  he  closed  his  eyes; 
a  pleasanter  sensation  was  stealing  over  him.  True, 
he  would  be  stiff  to-morrow,  but  he  had  done  his 
duty.  He  had  shown  them  all  that  blood  told;  done 
something  to  bolster  up  that  system  which  was — 
himself.  And  he  had  a  new  and  kindly  feeling 
towards  Peacock,  too.  There  was  nothing  like  a 
little  danger  for  bringing  the  lower  classes  closer; 
then  it  was  they  felt  the  need  for  officers,  for  some- 
thing ! 

The  spaniel  John's  head  rose  between  his  knees, 
turning  up  eyes  with  a  crimson  touch  beneath. 

"Master,"  he  seemed  to  say,  "I  am  feeling  old. 
I  know  there  are  things  beyond  me  in  this  life,  but 
you,  who  know  all  things,  will  arrange  that  we  shall 
be  together  even  when  we  die." 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  drive, 
and  the  Squire's  thoughts  changed.  Twenty  years 
ago  he  would  have  beaten  Barter  running  down  that 
lane.  Barter  was  only  forty-five.  To  give  him 
fourteen  years  and  a  beating  was  a  bit  too  much 
to  expect.  He  felt  a  strange  irritation  with  Barter — 
the  fellow  had  cut  a  very  good  figure!  He  had 
shirked  nothing.  EUiman  was  too  strong!  Homocea 
was  the  thing.  Margery  would  have  to  rub  him! 
And  suddenly,  as  though  springing  naturally  from 
the  name  of  his  wife,  George  came  into  Mr.  Pendyce's 
mind,  and  the  respite  that  he  had  enjoyed  from  care 
was  over.  But  the  spaniel  John,  who  scented  home, 
began  singing  feebly  for  the  brougham  to  stop, 
and  .  beating  a  careless  tail  against  his  master's 
boot. 

It  was  rather  stiffly,  with  frowning  brows  and  a 


Rector  and  Squire  153 

shaking  underlip,  that  the  Squire  descended  from  the 
brougham,  and  began  sorely  to  mount  the  staircase 
to  his  wife's  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    PARK 

THERE  comes  a  day  each  year  in  May  when 
Hyde  Park  is  possessed.  A  cool  wind  swings 
the  leaves;  a  hot  sun  glistens  on  Long  Water,  on 
every  bough,  on  every  blade  of  grass.  The  birds 
sing  their  small  hearts  out,  the  band  plays  its  gayest 
tunes,  the  white  clouds  race  in  the  high  blue  heaven. 
Exactly  why  and  how  this  day  differs  from  those  that 
came  before  and  those  that  will  come  after,  cannot 
be  told;  it  is  as  though  the  Park  said:  ** To-day  I  live; 
the  Past  is  past.     I  care  not  for  the  Future!" 

And  on  this  day  they  who  chance  in  the  Park 
cannot  escape  some  measure  of  possession.  Their 
steps  quicken,  their  skirts  swing,  their  sticks  flour- 
ish, even  their  eyes  brighten — ^those  eyes  so  dulled 
with  looking  at  the  streets ;  and  each  one,  if  he  has 
a  Love,  thinks  of  her,  and  here  and  there  among 
the  wandering  throng  he  has  her  with  him.  To  these 
the  Park  and  all  sweet-blooded  mortals  in  it  nod  and 
smile. 

There  had  been  a  meeting  that  afternoon  at  Lady 
Maiden's  in  Prince's  Gate  to  consider  the  position 
of  the  working-class  women.  It  had  provided  a 
somewhat  heated  discussion,  for  a  person  had  gotten 
up  and  proved  almost  incontestably  that  the  working- 
class  woman  had  no  position  whatsoever. 

Gregory  Vigil  and  Mrs.  Shortman  had  left  this 
154 


The  Park  155 


meeting  together,  and,  crossing  the  Serpentine, 
struck  a  line  over  the  grass. 

"Mrs.  Shortman, "  said  Gregory,  "don't  you  think 
we  're  all  a  little  mad?" 

He  was  carrying  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
his  fine  grizzled  hair,  rumpled  in  the  excitement 
of  the  meeting,  had  not  yet  subsided  on  his 
head. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Vigil.     I  don't  exactly " 

"We  are  all  a  little  mad!  What  did  that  woman, 
Lady  Maiden,  mean  by  talking  as  she  did?  I  detest 
her!" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vigil!     She  has  the  best  intentions!" 

* '  Intentions  ? ' '  said  Gregory.  ' *  I  loathe  her !  What 
did  we  go  to  her  stuffy  drawing-room  for?  Look  at 
that  sky!" 

Mrs.  Shortman  looked  at  the  sky. 

"But,  Mr.  Vigil,"  she  said  earnestly,  "things 
would  never  get  done.  Sometimes  I  think  you  look 
at  everything  too  much  in  the  light  of  the  way  it 
ought  to  be!" 

"The  Milky  Way,"  said  Gregory. 

Mrs.  Shortman  pursed  her  lips;  she  found  it  im- 
possible to  habituate  herself  to  Gregory's  habit  of 
joking.  * 

They  had  scant  talk  for  the  rest  of  their  journey 
to  the  S.R.W.C.,  where  Miss  Mallow,  at  the  type- 
writer, was  reading  a  novel. 

"There  are  several  letters  for  you,  Mr.  Vigil. " 

"Mrs.  Shortman  says  I  am  unpractical,"  answered 
Gregory.     "Is  that  true,  Miss  Mallow?" 

The  colour  in  Miss  Mallow's  cheeks  spread  to  her 
sloping  shoulders. 

"Oh,  no.     You  're  most  practical,  only — ^perhaps — 


156  The  Country  House 

I  don't  know,  perhaps  you  do  try  to  do  rather  im- 
possible things,  Mr.  Vigil." 

"Bilcock  Buildings!" 

There  was  a  minute's  silence.  Then  Mrs.  Short- 
man  at  her  bureau  beginning  to  dictate,  the  type- 
writer started  clicking. 

Gregory,  who  had  opened  a  letter,  was  seated  with 
his  head  in  his  hands.  The  voice  ceased,  the  type- 
writer ceased,  but  Gregory  did  not  stir.  Both  women, 
turning  a  little  in  their  seats,  glanced  at  him.  Their 
eyes  caught  each  other's  and  they  looked  away  at 
once.  A  few  seconds  later  they  were  looking  at  him 
again.  Still  Gregory  did  not  stir.  An  anxious 
appeal  began  to  creep  into  the  women's  eyes. 

"Mr.  Vigil, "  said  Mrs.  Shortman  at  last,  " Mr.  Vigil, 
do  you  think " 

Gregory  raised  his  face;  it  was  flushed  to  the  roots 
of  his  hair. 

"Read  that,  Mrs.  Shortman." 

Handing  her  a  pale  grey  letter  stamped  with  an 
eagle  and  the  motto  Strenuus  auredque  pennd,  he 
rose  and  paced  the  room.  And  as  with  his  long, 
light  stride  he  was  passing  to  and  fro,  the  woman  at 
the  bureau  conned  steadily  the  writing,  the  girl  at 
the  typewriter  sat  motionless  with  a  red  and  jealous 
face. 

Mrs.  Shortman  folded  the  letter,  placed  it  on  the 
top  of  the  bureau,  and  said  without  raising  her  eyes : 

"Of  course,  it  is  very  sad  for  the  poor  little  girl; 
but  surely,  Mr.  Vigil,  it  must  always  be,  so  as  to 
check,  to  check " 

Gregory  stopped,  and  his  shining  eyes  disconcerted 
her;  they  seemed  to  her  unpractical.  Sharply  lifting 
her  voice,  she  went  on: 


The  Park  157 

**If  there  were  no  disgrace,  there  would  be  no  way 
of  stopping  it.  I  know  the  country  better  than  you 
do,  Mr.  Vigil. " 

Gregory  put  his  hands  to  his  ears. 

"We  must  find  a  place  for  her  at  once." 

The  window  was  fully  open,  so  that  he  could  not 
open  it  any  more,  and  he  stood  there  as  though  looking 
for  that  place  in  the  sky.  And  the  sky  that  he  looked 
at  was  very  blue,  and  large  white  birds  of  cloud  were 
flying  over  it. 

He  turned  from  the  window,  and  opened  another 
letter. 

"Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
"May  34,  1892. 
"  My  Dear  Vigil, 

"I  gathered  from  your  ward  when  I  saw  her 
yesterday  that  she  has  not  told  you  of  what,  I  fear, 
will  give  you  much  pain.  I  asked  her  point-blank 
whether  she  wished  the  matter  kept  from  you,  and 
her  answer  was,  'He  had  better  know — only  I  *m 
sorry  for  him.'  In  sum  it  is  this:  Bellew  has  either 
got  wind  of  our  watching  him,  or  some  one  must  have 
put  him  up  to  it;  he  has  anticipated  us  and  brought 
a  suit  against  your  ward,  joining  George  Pendyce 
in  the  cause.  George  brought  the  citation  to  me. 
If  necessary  he  's  prepared  to  swear  there  's  nothing 
in  it.  He  takes,  in  fact,  the  usual  standpoint  of  the 
*man  of  honour.' 

"I  went  at  once  to  see  your  ward.  She  admitted 
that  the  charge  is  true.  I  asked  her  if  she  wished 
the  suit  defended,  and  a  counter -suit  brought  against 
her  husband.  Her  answer  to  that  was :  *  I  absolutely 
don't  care.'  I  got  nothing  from  her  but  this,  and 
though  it  sounds  odd.  I  believe  it  to  be  true.      §]ie 


158  The  Country  House 

appears  to  be  in  a  reckless  mood,  and  to  have  no 
particular  ill-will  against  her  husband. 

**  I  want  to  see  you,  but  only  after  you  have  turned 
this  matter  over  carefully.  It  is  my  duty  to  put 
some  considerations  before  you.  The  suit,  if  brought, 
will  be  a  very  unpleasant  matter  for  George,  a  still 
more  unpleasant,  even  disastrous  one,  for  his  people. 
The  innocent  in  such  cases  are  almost  always  the 
greatest  sufferers.  If  the  cross-suit  is  instituted, 
it  will  assume  at  once,  considering  their  position  in 
Society,  the  proportions  of  a  cause  celebre,  and  pro- 
bably occupy  the  court  and  the  daily  press  anything 
from  three  days  to  a  week,  perhaps  more,  and  you 
know  what  that  means.  On  the  other  hand,  not  to 
defend  the  suit,  considering  what  we  know,  is,  apart 
from  ethics,  revolting  to  my  instincts  as  a  fighter. 
My  advice,  therefore,  is  to  make  every  effort  to  pre- 
vent matters  being  brought  into  court  at  all. 

"I  am  an  older  man  than  you  by  thirteen  years. 
I  have  a  sincere  regard  for  you,  and  I  wish  to  save 
you  pain.  In  the  course  of  our  interviews,  I  have 
observed  your  ward  very  closely,  and  at  the  risk  of 
giving  you  offence,  I  am  going  to  speak  out  my  mind. 
Mrs.  Bellew  is  a  rather  remarkable  woman.  From 
two  or  three  allusions  that  you  have  made  in  my 
presence,  I  believe  that  she  is  altogether  different 
from  what  you  think.  She  is,  in  my  opinion,  one 
of  those  very  vital  persons  upon  whom  our  judg- 
ments, censures,  even  our  sympathies,  are  wasted. 
A  woman  of  this  sort,  if  she  comes  of  a  county  family, 
and  is  thrown  by  circumstances  with  Society  people, 
is  always  bound  to  be  conspicuous.  If  you  would 
realise  something  of  this,  it  would,  I  believe,  save 
you  a  great  deaj  of  pain.     In  short,  I  beg  of  you  not 


The  Park  159 

to   take   her,   or  her  circumstances,   too     seriously. 
There  are  quite  a  number  of  such  men  and  women  as 
her  husband  and  herself,  and  they  are  always  certain 
to  be  more  or  less  before  the  public  eye.     Whoever 
else  goes  down,  she  will  swim,  simply  because  she 
can't  help  it.     I  want  you  to  see  things  as  they  are. 
"I  ask  you  again,  my  dear  Vigil,  to  forgive  me 
for  writing  thus,  and  to  believe  that  my  sole  desire 
is  to  try  and  save  you  unnecessary  suffering, 
"  Come  and  see  me  as  soon  as  you  have  reflected. 
"I  am, 

"Your  sincere  friend, 

"Edmund  Paramor." 

Gregory  made  a  movement  like  that  of  a  blind  man. 
Both  women  were  on  their  feet  at  once. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Vigil.?     Can  I  get  you  anything?" 

"Thanks;  nothing,  nothing.  I  've  had  some  rather 
bad  news.  I  '11  go  out  and  get  some  air.  I  shan't  be 
back  to-day." 

He  found  his  hat  and  went. 

He  walked  towards  the  Park,  unconsciously  at- 
tracted towards  the  biggest  space,  the  freshest  air; 
his  hands  were  folded  behind  him,  his  head  bowed. 
And  since,  of  all  things,  Nature  is  ironical,  it  was 
fitting  that  he  should  seek  the  Park  this  day  when 
it  was  gayest.  And  far  in  the  Park,  as  near  the 
centre  as  might  be,  he  lay  down  on  the  grass.  For 
a  long  time  he  lay  without  moving,  his  hands  over 
his  eyes,  and  in  spite  of  Mr.  Paramor's  reminder 
that  his  suffering  was  unnecessary,  he  suffered. 

And  mostly  he  suffered  from  black  loneliness,  for 
he  was  a  very  lonely  man,  and  now  he  had  lost  that 
which    he  had   thought   he  had.     It   is  .difficult  to 


i6o  The  Country  House 

divide  suffering,  difficult  to  say  how  much  he  suffered, 
because,  being  in  love  with  her,  he  had  secretly  thought 
she  must  love  him  a  little,  and  how  much  he  suffered 
because  his  private  portrait  of  her,  the  portrait  that 
he,  and  he  alone,  had  painted,  was  scored  through 
with  the  knife.  And  he  first  lay  on  his  face,  and 
then  on  his  back,  with  his  hand  always  over  his  eyes. 
And  around  him  were  other  men  lying  on  the  grass, 
and  some  were  lonely,  and  some  hungry,  and  some 
alseep,  and  some  were  lying  there  for  the  pleasure 
of  doing  nothing  and  for  the  sake  of  the  hot  sun  on 
their  cheeks;  and  by  the  side  of  some  lay  their  girls, 
and  it  was  these  that  Gregory  could  not  bear  to  see, 
for  his  spirit  and  his  senses  were  a-hungered.  In  the 
plantations  close  by  were  pigeons,  and  never  for  a 
moment  did  they  stop  cooing;  never  did  the  black- 
birds cease  their  courting  songs;  the  sun  its  hot, 
sweet,  burning;  the  clouds  above,  their  love-chase 
in  the  sky.  It  was  the  day  without  a  past,  without 
a  future,  when  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone. 
And  no  man  looked  at  him,  because  it  was  no  man's 
business,  but  a  woman  here  and  there  cast  a  glance 
on  that  long,  tweed-suited  figure  with  the  hand  over 
the  eyes,  and  wondered,  perhaps,  what  was  behind 
that  hand.  Had  they  but  known,  they  would  have 
smiled  their  woman's  smile  that  he  should  so  have 
mistaken  one  of  their  sex. 

Gregory  lay  quite  still,  looking  at  the  sky,  and 
because  he  was  a  loyal  man  he  did  not  blame  her,  but 
slowly,  very  slowly,  his  spirit,  like  a  spring  stretched 
to  the  point  of  breaking,  came  back  upon  itself,  and 
since  he  could  not  bear  to  see  things  as  they  were, 
he  began  again  to  see  them  as  they  were  not. 

"She  has  been  forced  into  this,"  he  thought.     "It 


The  Park  i6i 

is  George  Pendyce's  fault.     To  me  she  is,  she  must 
be,  the  same!' 

He  turned  again  on  to  his  face.  And  a  small  dog 
that  had  lost  its  master  sniffed  at  his  boots,  and  sat 
down  a  little  way  off,  to  wait  till  Gregory  could  do 
something  for  him,  because  he  smelled  that  he  was 
that  sort  of  man. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DOUBTFUL  POSITION  AT  WORSTED  SKEYNES 

WHEN  George's  answer  came  at  last,  the  flags 
were  in  full  bloom  round  the  Scotch  garden 
at  Worsted  Skeynes.  They  grew  in  masses  and  of 
all  shades,  from  deep  purple  to  pale  grey,  and  their 
scent,  very  penetrating,  very  delicate,  floated  on 
the  wind. 

While  waiting  for  that  answer,  it  had  become  Mr. 
Pendyce's  habit  to  promenade  between  these  beds, 
his  hand  to  his  back,  for  he  was  still  a  little  stiff, 
followed  at  a  distance  of  seven  paces  by  the  spaniel 
John,  very  black,  and  moving  his  rubbery  nostrils 
uneasily  from  side  to  side. 

In  this  way  the  two  passed  every  day  the  hour 
from  twelve  to  one.  Neither  could  have  said  why 
they  walked  thus,  for  Mr.  Pendyce  had  a  horror  of 
idleness,  and  the  spaniel  John  disliked  the  scent  of 
irises;  both,  in  fact,  obeyed  that  part  of  themselves 
which  is  superior  to  reason.  During  this  hour,  too, 
Mrs.  Pendyce,  though  longing  to  walk  between  her 
flowers,  also  obeyed  that  part  of  her,  superior  to 
reason,  which  told  her  that  it  would  be  better  not. 

But  George's  answer  came  at  last. 

"Stoics'  Club. 
*'Dear  Father, 

**Yes,  Bellew  is  bringing  a  suit.     I  am  taking 
steps  in  the  matter.     As  to  the  promise  you  ask  for. 


Position  at  Worsted  Skeynes     163 

I  can  give  no  promise  of  the  sort.     You  may  tell 

Bellew  I  will  see  him  d d  first. 

"Your  affectionate  son, 

"  George  Pendyce." 

Mr.  Pendyce  received  this  at  the  breakfast-table, 
and  while  he  read  it  there  was  a  hush,  for  all  had  seen 
the  handwriting  on  the  envelope. 

Mr.  Pendyce  read  it  through  twice,  once  with  his 
glasses  on  and  once  without,  and  when  he  had  finished 
the  second  reading  he  placed  it  in  his  breast  pocket. 
No  word  escaped  him;  his  eyes,  which  had  sunk  a 
little  the  last  few  days,  rested  angrily  on  his  wife's 
white  face.  Bee  and  Norah  looked  down,  and,  as 
if  they  understood,  the  four  dogs  were  still.  Mr. 
Pendyce  pushed  his  plate  back,  rose,  and  left  the 
room. 

Norah  looked  up. 

"What  *s  the  matter,  Mother?" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  was  swaying.  She  recovered  herself 
in  a  moment. 

'*  Nothing,  dear.  It 's  very  hot  this  morning,  don't 
you  think?  I  '11  just  go  to  my  room  and  take  some 
sal  volatile." 

She  went  out,  followed  by  old  Roy,  the  Skyc;  the 
spaniel  John,  who  had  been  cut  off  at  the  door  by  his 
master's  abrupt  exit,  preceded  her.  Norah  and  Bee 
pushed  back  their  plates. 

"I  can't  eat,  Norah,"  said  Bee.  "It's  horrible 
not  to  know  what  's  going  on. " 

Norah  answered: 

"  It 's  perfectly  brutal  not  being  a  man.  You  might 
just  as  well  be  a  dog  as  a  girl,  for  anything  any  one 
tells  you!" 


1 64  The  Country  House 

Mrs.  Pendyce  did  not  go  to  her  room;  she  went  to 
the  library.  Her  husband,  seated  at  his  table,  had 
George's  letter  before  him.  A  pen  was  in  his  hand, 
but  he  was  not  writing. 

"Horace,"  she  said  softly,  "here  is  poor  John!" 

Mr.  Pendyce  did  not  answer,  but  put  down  the 
hand  that  did  not  hold  his  pen.  The  spaniel  John 
covered  it  with  kisses. 

"Let  me  see  the  letter,  won't  you?" 

Mr.  Pendyce  handed  it  to  her  without  a  word- 
She  touched  his  shoulder  gratefully,  for  his  unusual 
silence  went  to  her  heart.  Mr.  Pendyce  took  no 
notice,  staring  at  his  pen  as  though  surprised  that, 
of  its  own  accord  it  did  not  write  his  answer;  but 
suddenly  he  flung  it  down  and  looked  round,  and  his 
look  seemed  to  say:  "You  brought  this  fellow  into 
the  world;  now  see  the  result!" 

He  had  had  so  many  days  to  think  and  put  his 
finger  on  the  doubtful  spots  of  his  son's  character. 
All  that  week  he  had  become  more  and  more  certain 
of  how,  without  his  wife,  George  would  have  been 
exactly  like  himself.  Words  sprang  to  his  lips,  and 
kept  on  dying  there.  The  doubt  whether  she  would 
agree  with  him,  the  feeling  that  she  sympathised 
with  her  son,  the  certainty  that  something  even  in 
himself  responded  to  those  words:   "You  can  tell 

Bellew  I  will  see  him  d d  first ! "    All  this,  and  the 

thought,  never  out  of  his  mind,  "The  name — the 
estate!"  kept  him  silent.  He  turned  his  head  away, 
and  took  up  his  pen  again. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  had  read  the  letter  now  three  times, 
and  instinctively  had  put  it  in  her  bosom.  It  was 
not  hers,  but  Horace  must  know  it  by  heart,  and  in 
his  anger  he  might  tear  it  up.     That  letter,  for  which 


Position  at  Worsted  Skeynes        165 

they  had  waited  so  long,  told  her  nothing;  she  had 
known  all  there  was  to  tell.  Her  hand  had  fallen 
from  Mr.  Pendyce's  shoulder,  and  she  did  not  put  it 
back,  but  ran  her  fingers  through  and  through  each 
other,  while  the  sunlight,  traversing  the  narrow 
windows,  caressed  her  from  her  hair  down  to  her 
knees.  Here  and  there  that  stream  of  sunlight 
formed  little  pools — in  her  eyes,  giving  them  a  touch- 
ing, anxious  brightness;  in  a  curious  heart-shaped 
locket  of  carved  steel,  worn  by  her  mother  and  her 
grandmother  before  her,  containing  now,  not  locks 
of  iheir  son's  hair,  but  a  curl  of  George's;  in  her 
diamond  rings,  and  a  bracelet  of  amethyst  and  pearl 
which  she  wore  for  the  love  of  pretty  things.  And 
the  warm  sunlight  disengaged  from  her  a  scent  of 
lavender.  Through  the  library  door  a  scratching 
noise  told  that  the  dear  dogs  knew  she  was  not  in 
her  bedroom.  Mr.  Pendyce,  too,  caught  the  scent 
of  lavender,  and  in  some  vague  way  it  augmented 
his  discomfort.  Her  silence,  too,  distressed  him. 
It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  his  silence  was  distressing 
her.     He  put  down  his  pen. 

"I  can't  write  with  you  standing  there,  Margery!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  moved  out  of  the  sunlight. 

"  George  says  he  is  taking  steps.  What  does  that 
mean,  Horace?" 

This  question,  focussing  his  doubts,  broke  down 
the  Squire's  dumbness. 

"I  won't  be  treated  like  this!"  he  said.  "I  '11  go 
up  and  see  him  myself!" 

He  went  by  the  10.20,  saying  that  he  would  be 
down  again  by  the  5.55. 

Soon  after  seven  the  same  evening  a  dog-cart, 
driven  by  a  young  groom  and  drawn  by  a  raking 


1 66  The  Country  House 

chestnut  mare  with  a  blaze  face,  swung  into  the 
railway-station  at  Worsted  Skeynes,  and  drew  up 
before  the  booking-office.  Mr.  Pendyce's  brougham, 
behind  a  brown  horse,  coming  a  little  later,  was 
obliged  to  range  itself  behind.  A  minute  before 
the  train's  arrival  a  waggonette  and  a  pair  of  bays, 
belonging  to  Lord  Quarry  man,  wheeled  in,  and, 
filing  past  the  other  two,  took  up  its  place  in  front. 
Outside  this  little  row  of  vehicles  the  station  fly  and 
two  farmers'  gigs  presented  their  backs  to  the  station 
buildings.  And  in  this  arrangement  there  was 
something  harmonious  and  fitting,  as  though  Provi- 
dence itself  had  guided  them  all  and  assigned  to  each 
its  place.  And  Providence  had  only  made  one  error 
— that  of  placing  Captain  Bellew's  dog-cart  precisely 
opposite  the  booking-office  instead  of  Lord  Quarry- 
man's  waggonette,  with  Mr.  Pendyce's  brougham 
next. 

Mr.  Pendyce  came  out  first;  he  stared  angrily  at 
the  dogcart,  and  moved  to  his  own  carriage.  Lord 
Quarryman  came  out  second.  His  massive  sun- 
burned head — the  back  of  which,  sparsely  adorned 
by  hairs,  ran  perfectly  straight  into  his  neck — was 
crowned  by  a  grey  top-hat.  The  skirts  of  his  grey 
coat  were  square-shaped,  and  so  were  the  toes  of  his 
boots. 

''Hallo,  Pendyce!"  he  called  out  heartily;  "didn't 
see  you  on  the  platform.     How  's  your  wife?" 

Mr.  Pendyce,  turning  to  answer,  met  the  little  "^ 
burning  eyes  of  Captain  Bellew,  who  came  out  third. 
They  failed  to  salute  each  other,  and  Bellew,  springing 
into  his  cart,  wrenched  his  mare  round,  circled  the 
farmers'  gigs,  and,  sitting  forward,  drove  off  at  a 
iurious  pace.     His  groom,  running  at  full  speed,  clung 


Position  at  Worsted  Skeynes      167 

to  the  cart  and  leaped  on  to  the  step  behind.  Lord 
Quarryman's  waggonette  backed  itself  into  the  place 
left  vacant.  And  the  mistake  of  Providence  was 
rectified. 

"Cracked  chap,  that  fellow  Bellew.  D*  you  see 
anything  of  him?" 

"Mr.  Pendyce  answered: 

"No;  and  I  want  to  see  less.  I  wish  he'd  take 
himself  off!" 

His  lordship  smiled. 

"A  huntin'  country  seems  to  breed  fellows  like 
that;  there  's  always  one  of  'em  to  every  pack  of 
hounds.  Where  's  his  wife  now?  Good  lookin* 
woman;  rather  warm  member,  eh?" 

It  seemed  to  Mr.  Pendyce  that  Lord  Quarryman's 
eyes  searched  his  own  with  a  knowing  look,  and 
muttering,  "God  knows!"  he  vanished  into  his 
brougham. 

Lord  Quarryman  looked  kindly  at  his  horses.  He 
was  not  a  man  who  reflected  on  the  whys,  the  where- 
fores, the  becauses,  of  this  life.  The  good  God  had 
made  him  Lord  Quarryman,  had  made  his  eldest  son 
Lord  Quantock ;  the  good  God  had  made  the  Gaddes- 
don  hounds — ^it  was  enough! 

When  Mr.  Pendyce  reached  home  he  went  to  his 
dressing-room.  In  a  corner  by  the  bath,  the  spaniel 
John  lay  surrounded  by  an  assortment  of  his  master's 
slippers,  for  it  was  thus  alone  that  he  could  soothe 
in  a  measure  the  bitterness  of  separation.  His  dark 
brown  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  door,  and  round  it 
gleamed  a  crescent  moon  of  white.  He  came  to  the 
Squire  fluttering  his  tail,  with  a  slipper  in  his  mouth, 
and  his  eye  said  plainly:  "Oh,  master,  where  have 
you  been?    Why  have  you  been  so  long?     I  have 


1 68  The  Country  House 

been   expecting   you   ever   since   half-past   ten   this 
morning!" 

Mr.  Pendyce's  heart  opened  a  moment  and  closed 
again.  He  said  "John!"  and  began  to  dress  for 
dinner. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  found  him  tying  his  white  tie.  She 
had  plucked  the  first  rosebud  from  her  garden;  she 
had  plucked  it  because  she  felt  sorry  for  him,  and 
because  of  the  excuse  it  would  give  her  to  go  to 
his  dressing-room  at  once. 

"I've  brought  you  a  buttonhole,   Horace.    Did 
you  see  him?" 
"No." 

Of  all  answers  this  was  the  one  she  dreaded  most. 
She  had  not  believed  that  anything  would  come  of 
an  interview;  she  had  trembled  all  day  long  at  the 
thought  of  their  meeting;  but  now  that  they  had  not 
met  she  knew  by  the  sinking  in  her  heart  that  any- 
thing was  better  than  uncertainty.  She  waited 
as  long  as  she  could,  then  burst  out : 
"Tell  me  something,  Horace!" 
Mr.  Pendyce  gave  her  an  angry  glance. 
"How  can  I  tell  you,  when  there  's nothing  to  tell? 
I  went  to  his  club.  He  's  not  living  there  now.  He's 
got  rooms,  nobody  knows  where.  I  waited  all  the 
afternoon.  Left  a  message  at  last  for  him  to  come 
down  here  to-morrow.  I  've  sent  for  Paramor,  and 
told  him  to  come  down  too.  I  won't  put  up  with 
this  sort  of  thing.  " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  out  of  the  window,  but  there 
was  nothing  to  see  save  the  ha-ha,  the  coverts,  the 
village  spire,  the  cottage  roofs,  which  for  so  long  had 
been  her  world. 

"George  won't  come  down  here/'  she  said. 


Position  at  Worsted  Skeynes    169 

"George  will  do  what  I  tell  him." 

Again  Mrs.  Pendyce  shook  her  head,  knowing  by 
instinct  that  she  was  right. 

Mr.  Pendyce  stopped  putting  on  his  waistcoat. 

"George  had  better  take  care,"  he  said;  "he's 
entirely  dependent  on  me." 

And  as  if  with  those  words  he  had  summed  up  the 
situation,  the  philosophy  of  a  system  vital  to  his  son, 
he  no  longer  frowned.  On  Mrs.  Pendyce  those  words 
had  a  strange  effect.  They  stirred  within  her  terror. 
It  was  like  seeing  her  son's  back  bared  to  a  lifted 
whip- lash ;  like  seeing  the  door  shut  against  him  on  a 
snowy  night.  But  besides  terror  they  stirred  within 
her  a  more  poignant  feeling  yet,  as  though  some  one 
had  dared  to  show  a  whip  to  herself,  had  dared  to 
defy  that  something  more  precious  than  life  in  her 
soul,  that  something  which  was  of  her  blood,  so 
utterly  and  secretly  passed  by  the  centuries  into 
her  fibre  that  no  one  had  ever  thought  of  defying 
it  before.  And  there  flashed  before  her  with  ludicrous 
concreteness  the  thought:  "I  've  got  three  hundred 
a  year  of  my  own ! "  Then  the  whole  feeling  left  her, 
just  as  in  dreams  a  mordant  sensation  grips  and 
passes,  leaving  a  dull  ache,  whose  cause  is  forgotten, 
behind. 

"There  's  the  gong,  Horace,"  she  said.  "Cecil 
Tharp  is  here  to  dinner.  I  asked  the  Barters,  but 
poor  Rose  did  n't  feel  up  to  it.  Of  course  they  are 
expecting  it  very  soon  now.  They  talk  of  the  15th 
of  June. " 

Mr.  Pendyce  took  from  his  wife  his  coat,  passing 
his  arms  down  the  satin  sleeves. 

"If  I  could  get  cottagers  to  have  families  like 
that, "  he  said,  "  I  should  n't  have  much  trouble  about 


i7o  The  Country  House 

labour.  They  're  a  pig-headed  lot — do  nothing  that 
they're  told.  Give  me  some  eau  de  Cologne,  Mar- 
gery." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  dabbed  the  wicker  flask  on  her 
husband's  handkerchief. 

**Your  eyes  look  tired,"  she  said.  "Have  you 
a  headache,  dear?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

COUNCIL  AT   WORSTED   SKEYNES 

IT  was  on  the  following  evening — ^the  evening  on 
which  he  was  expecting  his  son  and  Mr.  Paramor 
—that  the  Squire  leaned  forward  over  the  dining- 
table  and  asked: 

"What  do  you  say,  Barter?  I  'm  speaking  to  you 
as  a  man  of  the  world. " 

The  Rector  bent  over  his  glass  of  port  and  moistened 
his  lower  lip. 

"There  's  no  excuse  for  that  woman,"  he  answered. 
"I  always  thought  she  was  a  bad  lot. *' 

Mr.  Pendyce  went  on: 

"We  Ve  never  had  a  scandal  in  my  family.  I  find 
the  thought  of  it  hard  to  bear,  Barter — I  find  it  hard 
to  bear " 

The  Rector  emitted  a  low  sound.  He  had  come 
from  long  usage  to  have  a  feeling  like  affection  for  his 
Squire. 

Mr.  Pendyce  pursued  his  thoughts. 

"We  've  gone  on,"  he  said,  "father  and  son  for 
hundreds  of  years.     It  's  a  blow  to  me,  Barter. " 

Again  the  Rector  emitted  that  low  sound. 

"What  will  the  village  think?"  said  Mr.  Pendyce; 
"and  the  farmers — ^I  mind  that  more  than  anything. 
Most  of  them  knew  my  dear  old  father — ^not  that 
he  was  popular.     It  's  a  bitter  thing. " 

The  Rector  said: 

17*  , 


172  The  Country  House 

"Well,  well,  Pendyce,  perhaps  it  won't  come  to 
that." 

He  looked  a  little  shamefaced,  and  his  light  eyes 
were  full  of  something  like  contrition. 

"How  does  Mrs.  Pendyce  take  it?" 

The  Squire  looked  at  him  for  the  first  time. 

"Ah!"  he  said;  **you  never  know  anything  about 
women.  I  'd  as  soon  trust  a  woman  to  be  just  as 
I  'd — ^I  'd  finish  that  magnum;  it  *d  give  me  gout  in 
no  time." 

The  Rector  emptied  his  glass. 

"I  've  sent  for  George  and  my  solicitor,"  pursued 
the  Squire;  "they  '11  be  here  directly." 

Mr.  Barter  pushed  his  chair  back,  and  raising  his 
right  ankle  on  to  his  left  leg,  clasped  his  hands  round 
his  right  knee;  then,  leaning  forward,  he  stared  up 
under  his  jutting  brows  at  Mr.  Pendyce.  It  was  the 
attitude  in  which  he  thought  best. 

Mr.  Pendyce  ran  on: 

"I  've  nursed  the  estate  ever  since  it  came  to  me; 
I  've  carried  on  the  tradition  as  best  I  could;  I  've 
not  been  as  good  a  man,  perhaps,  as  I  should  have 
wished,  but  I  've  always  tried  to  remember  my  old 
father's  words:  *I  'm  done  for,  Horry;  the  estate  *s 
in  your  hands  now. '  "     He  cleared  his  throat. 

For  a  full  minute  there  was  no  sound  save  the 
ticking  of  the  clock.  Then  the  spaniel  John,  coming 
silently  from  under  the  sideboard,  fell  heavily  down 
against  his  master's  leg  with  a  lengthy  snore  of 
satisfaction.     Mr.  Pendyce  looked  down. 

"This  fellow  of  mine,  "  he  muttered,"  is  getting  fat. " 

It  was  evident  from  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  he 
desired  his  emotion  to  be  forgotten.  Something 
very  deep  in  Mr.  Barter  respected  that  desire. 


Council  at  Worsted  Skeynes      173 

*'It  's  a  first-rate  magnum,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Pendyce  filled  his  Rector's  glass. 

"I  forget  if  you  knew  Par  amor.  He  was  before 
your  time.     He  was  at  Harrow  with  me. " 

The  Rector  took  a  prolonged  sip. 

"I  shall  be  in  the  way, "  he  said.  " I  '11  take  myself 
off." 

The  Squire  put  out  his  hand  affectionately. 

**No,  no,  Barter,  don't  you  go.  It 's  all  safe  with 
you.  I  mean  to  act.  I  can't  stand  this  uncertainty. 
My  wife's  cousin  Vigil  is  coming  too — ^he  's  her  guard- 
ian.    I  wired  for  him.     You  know  Vigil?" 

The  Rector  turned  crimson,  and  set  his  underlip. 
Having  scented  his  enemy,  nothing  would  now  per- 
suade him  to  withdraw;  and  the  conviction  that  he 
had  only  done  his  duty,  a  little  shaken  by  the  Squire's 
confidence,  returned  as  though  by  magic. 

"Yes,  I  know  him." 

"We'll  have  it  all  out  here,"  muttered  Mr.  Pen- 
dyce, "over  this  port.  There 's  the  carriage.  Get  up, 
John." 

The  spaniel  John  rose  heavily,  looked  sardonically 
at  Mr.  Barter,  and  again  flopped  down  against  his 
master's  leg. 

"Get  up,  John,"  said  Mr.  Pendyce  again.  The 
spaniel  John  snored. 

"If  I  move,  you  '11  move  too,  and  uncertainty  will 
begin  for  me  again,"  he  seemed  to  say. 

Mr.  Pendyce  disengaged  his  leg,  rose,  and  went 
to  the  door.  Before  reaching  it  he  turned  and  came 
back  to  the  table.' 

"Barter,"  he  said,  "I  'm  not  thinking  of  myself — 
I  'm  not  thinking  of  myself — we  've  been  here  for 
generations — it  's  the  principle  "     His  fg-ce  had  th^ 


174  The  Country  House 

least  twist  to  one  side,  as  though  conforming  to  a 
kink  in  his  philosophy;  his  eyes  looked  sad  and 
restless. 

And  the  Rector,  watching  the  door  for  the  sight 
of  his  enemy,  also  thought: 

**I  'm  not  thinking  of  myself — I  'm  satisfied  that 
I  did  right — I  'm  Rector  of  this  parish — it  's  the 
principle." 

The  spaniel  John  gave  three  short  barks,  one  for 
each  of  the  persons  who  entered  the  room.  They 
were  Mrs.  Pendyce,  Mr.  Paramor,  and  Gregory  Vigil. 

"Where  's  George?"  asked  the  Squire,  but  no  one 
answered  him. 

The  Rector,  who  had  resumed  his  seat,  stared  at 
a  little  gold  cross  which  he  had  taken  out  of  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  Mr.  Paramor  lifted  a  vase  and 
sniffed  at  the  rose  it  contained;  Gregory  walked  to 
the  window. 

When  Mr.  Pendyce  realised  that  his  son  had  not 
come,  he  went  to  the  door  and  held  it  open. 

"Be  good  enough  to  take  John  out,  Margery,"  he 
said.     "John!" 

The  spaniel  John,  seeing  what  lay  before  him 
rolled  over  on  his  back. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  husband,  and 
in  those  eyes  she  put  all  the  words  which  the  nature 
of  a  lady  did  not  suffer  her  to  speak. 

"I  claim  to  be  here.  Let  me  stay;  it  is  my  right, 
DonH  send  me  away. "  So  her  eyes  spoke,  and  so, 
those  of  the  spaniel  John,  lying  on  his  back,  in  which 
attitude  he  knew  that  he  was  hard  to  move. 

Mr.  Pendyce  turned  him  over  with  his  foot. 

"Get  up,  John!  Be  good  enough  to  take  John 
out,  Margery." 

12 


Council  at  Worsted  Skeynes       175 

Mrs.  Pendyce  flushed,  but  did  not  move. 

"John,  "  said  Mr,  Pendyce,  "go  with  your  mistress." 
The  spaniel  John  fluttered  a  drooping  tail.  Mr. 
Pendyce  pressed  his  foot  to  it.  "This  is  not  a  sub- 
ject for  women." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  bent  down. 

"Come,  John."  she  said.  The  spaniel  John, 
showing  the  whites  of  his  eyes,  and  trying  to  back 
through  his  collar  was  assisted  from  the  room.  Mr. 
Pendyce  closed  the  door  behind  them. 

"Have  a  glass  of  port.  Vigil;  it  's  the  '47.  My 
father  laid  it  down  in  '56,  the  year  before  he  died. 
Can't  drink  it  myself — I  've  had  to  put  down  two 
hogsheads  of  the  Jubilee  wine.  Paramor,  fill  your 
glass.  Take  that  chair  next  to  Paramor,  Vigil. 
You  know  Barter?" 

Both  Gregory's  face  and  the  Rector's  were  very 
red. 

"We  're  all  Harrow  men  here,"  went  on  Mr.  Pen- 
dyce. And  suddenly  turning  to  Mr.  Paramor,  he 
said,  "Well?" 

Just  as  round  the  hereditary  principle  are  grouped 
'he  State,  the  Church,  Law,  and  Philanthropy,  so 
round  the  dining-table  at  Worsted  Skeynes  sat  the 
Squire,  the  Rector,  Mr.  Pa -amor,  and  Gregory  Vigil, 
and  none  of  them  wished  xo  be  the  first  to  speak. 
At  last  Mr.  Paramor,  taking  from  his  pocket  Bellew's 
note  and  George's  answer^  which  wer^  pinned  in 
strange  alliance,  returned  them  to  the  Sqi  ire. 

"I  understand  the  position  to  be  that  George 
refuses  to  give  her  up ;  at  the  same  time  he  is  prepared 
to  defend  the  suit  and  deny  everything.  Those  are 
his  instructions  to  me. "  Taking  up  the  vase  again, 
he  sniffed  long  and  deep  at  the  rose. 


ijd  The  Country  House 

Mr.  Pendyce  broke  the  silence. 

"As  a  gentleman,"  he  said  in  a  voice  sharpened 
by  the  bitterness  of  his  feelings,  "I  suppose  he  '■ 
obliged " 

Gregory,  smiling  painfully,  added: 

"To  tell  lies." 

Mr.  Pendyce  turned  on  him  at  once. 

"I  've  nothing  to  say  about  that,  Vigil.  George 
has  behaved  abominably.  I  don't  uphold  him; 
but  if  the  woman  wishes  the  suit  defended  he  can't 
play  the  cur — that  *s  what  I  was  brought  up  to 
believe." 

Gregory  leaned  his  forehead  on  his  hand. 

"  The  whole  system  is  odious "  he  was  beginning. 

Mr.  Paramor  chimed  in. 

"Let  us  keep  to  the  facts;  they  are  enough  with- 
out the  system." 

The  Rector  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  about  the  system; 
both  this  man  and  this  woman  are  guilty " 

Gregory  said  in  a  voice  that  quivered  with  rage: 

"Be  so  kind  as  not  to  use  the  expression,  'this 
woman.'  " 

The  Rector  glowered. 

"What  expression  then " 

Mr.  Pendyce 's  voice,  to  which  the  intimate  trouble 
of  his  thoughts  lent  a  certain  dignity,  broke  in: 

"Gentlemen,  this  is  a  question  concerning  the 
honour  of  my  house." 

There  was  another  and  a  longer  silence,  during 
which  Mr.  Paramor 's  eyes  haunted  from  face  to  face, 
while  beyond  the  rose  a  smile  writhed  on  his  lips. 

"I  suppose  you  have  brought  me  down  here,  Pen- 
djce,  to  g^ive  you  my  opinion ,  * '  he  said  at  last,.     *  *  Wejil; 


Council  at  Worsted  Skeynes       177 

don't  let  these  matters  come  into  court.  If  there 
is  anything  you  can  do  to  prevent  it,  do  it.  If  your 
pride  stands  in  the  way,  put  it  in  your  pocket.  If 
your  sense  of  truth  stands  in  the  way,  forget  it.  Be- 
tween personal  delicacy  and  our  law  of  divorce  there 
is  no  relation;  between  absolute  truth  and  our  law 
of  divorce  there  is  no  relation.  I  repeat,  don't  let 
these  matters  come  into  court.  Innocent  and  guilty, 
you  will  all  suffer;  the  innocent  will  suffer  more  than 
the  guilty,  and  nobody  will  benefit.  I  have  com© 
to  this  conclusion  deliberately.  There  are  cases  in 
which  I  should  give  the  opposite  opinion.  But  in 
this  case,  I  repeat,  there  *s  nothing  to  be  gained  by 
it.  Once  more  then,  don't  let  these  matters  come 
into  court.  Don't  give  people's  tongues  a  chance. 
Take  my  advice,  appeal  to  George  again  to  give  you 
that  promise.  If  he  refuses,  well,  we  must  try  and 
bluff  Bellew  out  of  it." 

Mr.  Pendyce  had  listened,  as  he  had  formed  the 
habit  of  listening  to  Edmund  Paramor,  in  silence. 
He  now  looked  up  and  said: 

"It  's  all  that  red-haired  ruffian's  spite.  I  don't 
know  what  you  were  about  to  stir  things  up,  Vigil. 
You  must  have  put  him  on  the  scent."  He  looked 
moodily  at  Gregory.  Mr.  Barter,  too,  looked  at 
Gregory  with  a  sort  of  half-ashamed  defiance. 

Gregory  turned  towards  the  window,  but  seeing 
that  he  could  not  open  it  wider  than  it  was  already, 
he  began  speaking  in  a  voice  that  emotion  and  anger 
caused  to  tremble.  He  avoided  looking  at  the  Rector, 
and  addressed  himself  to  Mr.  Paramor. 

"  George  can't  give  up  the  woman  who  has  trusted 
herself  to  him;  that  would  be  playing  the  cur,  if  you 
like.     Let  them  go  and  live  together  honestly  laitil 


178  The  Country  House 

they  can  be  married.  Why  do  you  all  speak  as  if  it 
were  the  man  who  mattered?  It  is  the  woman 
that  we  should  protect!" 

The  Rector  first  recovered  speech. 

"You  're  talking  rank  immorality,"  he  said  almost 
good-humouredly. 

Mr.  Pendyce  rose. 

"Marry  her!"  he  cried.  "What  on  earth — that  's 
worse  than  all — the  very  thing  we  're  trying  to  pre- 
vent! We  've  been  here,  father  and  son — father 
and  son — for  generations!" 

"All  the  more  shame,"  burst  out  Gregory,  "if 
you  can't  stand  by  a  woman  at  the  end  of  them!" 

Mr.  Paramor  made  a  gesture  of  reproof. 

"There's  moderation  in  all  things, "  he  said.  "Are 
you  sure  that  Mrs.  Bellew  requires  protection.?  If 
you  are  right,  I  agree;  but  are  you  right?" 

"I  will  answer  for  it,"  said  Gregory. 

Mr.  Paramor  paused  a  full  minute  with  his  head 
resting  on  his  hand. 

"I  am  sorry, "  he  said  at  last,  "I  must  trust  to  my 
own  judgment." 

The  Squire  looked  up. 

"If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  can  I  cut  th« 
entail,  Paramor?" 

"  Not  without  George's  consent. " 
.  "What?     But  that  's  all  wrong— that  's " 

"You  can't  have  it  both  ways,"  said  Mr.  Paramor. 

The  Squire  looked  at  him  dubiously,  then  blurted 
out: 

"If  I  choose  to  leave  him  nothing  but  the  estate, 
he  '11  soon  find  him^self  a  beggar.  I  beg  your  pardon, 
gentlemen;  fill  your  glasses!  I  'm  forgetting  every- 
thing!" 


Council  at  Worsted  Skeynes      179 

The  Rector  filled  his  glass. 

"I  Ve  said  nothing  so  far,"  he  began;  "I  don't 
feel  that  it  's  my  business.  My  conviction  is  that 
there  's  far  too  much  divorce  nowadays.  Let  this 
woman  go  back  to  her  husband,  and  let  him  show 
her  where  she  's  to  blame" — his  voice  and  his  eyes 
hardened — "then  let  them  forgive  each  other  like 
Christians.  You  talk,"  he  said  to  Gregory,  "about 
standing  up  for  the  woman.  I'  ve  no  patience  with 
that ;  it  's  the  way  immorality  's  fostered  in  these 
days.  I  raise  my  voice  against  this  sentimentalism. 
I  always  have,  and  I  always  shall!" 

Gregory  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"I  've  told  you  once  before,"  he  said,  "that  you 
were  indelicate;  I  tell  you  so  again." 

Mr.  Barter  got  up,  and  stood  bending  over  the 
table,  crimson  in  the  face,  staring  at  Gregory,  and 
unable  to  speak. 

"Either  you  or  I,"  he  said  at  last,  stammering 
with  passion,  "must  leave  this  room." 

Gregory  tried  to  speak,  then  turning  abruptly, 
he  stepped  out  on  to  the  terrace,  and  passed  from  the 
view  of  those  within. 

The  Rector  said: 

"Good-night,  Pendyce;  I  'm  going,  too!" 

The  Squire  shook  the  hand  held  out  to  him  with  a 
face  perplexed  to  sadness.  There  was  silence  when 
Mr.  Barter  had  left  the  room. 

The  Squire  broke  it  with  a  sigh. 

"I  wish  we  were  back  at  Oxenham's,  Paramor! 
This  serves  me  right  for  deserting  the  old 
house!  What  on  earth  made  me  send  George  to 
Eton?" 

Mr.  Paramor  buried  his  nose  in  the  vase.     In  this 


i8o  The  Country  House 

saying  of  his  old  schoolfellow  was  the  whole  of  the 
Squire's  creed: 

**I  believe  in  my  father,  and  his  father,  and  his 
father's  father,  the  makers  and  keepers  of  my  estate, 
and  I  believe  in  myself  and  my  son  and  my  son's  son. 
And  I  believe  that  we  have  made  the  country,  and 
shall  keep  the  country  what  it  is.  And  I  believe  in 
the  Public  Schools,  and  especially  the  Public  School 
that  I  was  at.  And  I  believe  in  my  social  equals 
and  the  country  house,  and  in  things  as  they  are, 
for  ever  and  ever.     Amen." 

Mr.  Pendyce  went  on: 

**I  'm  not  a  Puritan,  Paramor;  I  dare  say  there  are 
allowances  to  be  made  for  George.  I  don't  even 
object  to  the  woman  herself;  she  may  be  too  good 
for  Bellew;  she  must  be  too  good  for  a  fellow  like 
that!  But  for  George  to  marry  her  would  be  ruina- 
tion. Look  at  Ladjr  Rose's  case!  Any  one  but  a 
star-gazing  fellow  like  Vigil  must  see  that!  It  's 
taboo!  It  *s  sheer  taboo!  And  think — think  of  my 
— my  grandson!     No,  no,  Paramor;  no,  no,  by  God!" 

The  Squire  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

Mr.  Paramor,  who  had  no  son  himself,  answered 
with  feeling: 

"Now,  now,  old  fellow;  it  won't  come  to  that!" 

"God  knows  what  it  will  come  to,  Paramor!  My 
nerve  *s  shaken!  You  know  yourself  that  if  there  *s 
a  divorce  he  '11  be  bound  to  marry  her!" 

To  this  Mr.  Paramor  made  no  reply,  but  pressed 
his  lips  together. 

"There  's  your  poor  dog  whining,"  he  said. 

And  without  waiting  for  permission  he  opened 
the  door.  Mrs.  Pendyce  and  the  spaniel  John  came 
in.     The  Squire  looked  up  and  frowned.     The  spaniel 


Council  at  Worsted  Skeynes      i8i 

John,  panting  with  delight,  rubbed  against  him. 
"  I  have  been  through  torment,  master, "  he  seemed  to 
say.  "A  second  separation  at  present  is  not  possible 
forme!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  stood  waiting  silently,  and  Mr. 
Paramor  addressed  himself  to  her. 

"  You  can  do  more  than  any  of  us,  Mrs.  Pendyce, 
both  with  George  and  with  this  man  Beillew,  and  if 
I  am  not  mistaken  with  his  wife. " 

The  Squire  broke  in: 

**  Don't  think  that  I  '11  have  any  humble  pie  eaten 
to  that  fellow  Bellew!" 

The  look  Mr.  Paramor  gave  him  at  those  words 
was  like  that  of  a  doctor  diagnosing  a  disease.  Yet 
there  was  nothing  in  the  expression  of  the  Squire's 
face  with  its  thin  grey  whiskers  and  moustache,  its 
twist  to  the  left,  its  swan-like  eyes,  decided  jaw,  and 
sloping  brow,  different  from  what  this  idea  might 
bring  on  the  face  of  any  country  gentleman. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  said  eagerly : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Paramor,  if  I  could  only  see  George!" 

She  longed  so  for  a  sight  of  her  son  that  her  thoughts 
carried  her  no  further. 

''See  him!"  cried  the  Squire:  "You'll  go  on  spoiling 
him  till  he  's  disgraced  us  all!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  turned  from  her  husband  to  his 
solicitor.  Excitement  had  fixed  an  unwonted  colour 
in  her  cheeks,  her  lips  twitched  as  if  she  wished  to 
speak. 

Mr.  Paramor  answered  for  her: 

"No,  Pendyce,"  if  George  is  spoilt,  the  system  is  to 
blame." 

"System!"  said  the  Squire.  "I  've  never  had  a 
system   for   him.     I  'm   no  believer  in  systems!     I 


i82  The  Country  House 

don't  know  what  you  're  talking  of.     I  have  another 

son,  thank  God!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  took  a  step  forward. 

" Horace, "  she  said,  "you  would  never " 

Mr.  Pendyce  turned  from  his  wife,  and  said  sharply: 
"Paramor,  are  you  sure  I  can't  cut  the  entail^" 
*As  sure,"  said  Mr.  Paramor.  "as  I  sit  herei" 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEFINITION  OF  **PENDY 

GREGORY  walked  long  in  the  Scotch  garden 
with  his  eyes  on  the  stars.  One,  larger  than 
all  the  rest,  over  the  larches,  shone  on  him  ironically, 
for  it  was  the  star  of  love.  And  on  his  beat  between 
the  yew-trees  that,  living  before  Pendyces  came  to 
Worsted  Skeynes,  would  live  when  they  were  gone, 
he  cooled  his  heart  in  the  silver  light  of  that  big  star. 
The  irises  restrained  their  perfume  lest  it  should  whip 
his  senses;  only  the  young  larch- trees  and  the  far 
fields  sent  him  their  fugitive  sweetness  through  the 
dark.  And  the  same  brown  owl  that  had  hooted 
when  Helen  Bellew  kissed  George  Pendyce  in  the 
conservatory  hooted  again  now  that  Gregory  walked 
grieving  over  the  fruits  of  that  kiss. 

His  thoughts  were  of  Mr.  Barter,  and  with  the  in- 
justice natural  to  a  man  who  took  a  warm  and  per- 
sonal view  of  things,  he  painted  the  Rector  in  colours 
larker  than  his  cloth. 

"Indehcate,  meddlesome,"  he  thought.  "How 
dare  he  speak  of  her  like  that?" 

Mr.  Paramor's  voice  broke  in  on  his  meditations. 

"Still  cooling  your  heels?  Why  did  you  play  the 
deuce  with  us  in  there?" 

"I  hate  a  sham,"  said  Gregory:  "This  marriage 
of  my  ward's  is  a  sham.  She  had  better  live  honestly 
with  the  man  she  really  loves!" 

183 


1 84  The  Country  House 

"So  you  said  just  now,"  returned  Mr.  Paratnor. 
*' Would  you  apply  that  to  everyone?" 

"I  would." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Paratnor  with  a  laugh,  "there  is 
nothing  like  an  idealist  for  making  hay!  You  once 
told  me,  if  I  remember,  that  marriage  was  sacred  to 
you!" 

"Those  are  my  own  private  feelings,  Paramor. 
But  here  the  mischief  's  done  already.  It  is  a  sham, 
a  hateful  sham,  and  it  ought  to  come  to  an  end!" 

"That  *s  all  very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Paramor,  "but 
when  you  come  to  put  it  into  practice  in  that  whole- 
sale way  it  leads  to  goodness  knows  what.  It  means 
reconstructing  marriage  on  a  basis  entirely  different 
from  the  present.  It  's  marriage  on  the  basis  of  the 
heart,  and  not  on  the  basis  of  property.  Are  you 
prepared  to  go  to  that  length?" 
1  am. 

"  You  *re  as  much  of  an  extremist  one  way  as  BarteF 
is  the  other.  It's  you  extremists  who  do  all  the  harm. 
There  's  a  golden  mean,  my  ^friend.  I  agree  that 
something  ought  to  be  done.  But  what  you  don't 
see  is  that  laws  must  suit  those  they  are  intended  to 
govern.  You  *re  too  much  in  the  stars,  Vigil.  Medi- 
cine must  be  graduated  to  the  patient.  Come,  man, 
where  *s  your  sense  of  humour?  Imagine  your  con- 
ception of  marriage  applied  to  Pendyce  and  his  sons, 
or  his  Rector,  or  his  tenants,  and  the  labourers  on 
his  estate." 

"No,  no,"  said  Gregory,  "I  refuse  to  believe '* 

"The  country  classes,"  said  Mr.  Paramor  quietly^ 
"  are  especially  backward  in  such  matters.  They  have 
strong,  meat-fed  instincts,  and  what  with  the  County 
Members,  the  Bishops,  the  Peers,  all  the  hereditary 


Definition  of 'Tendycitis"         185 

force  of  the  country,  they  still  rule  the  roost.  And 
there  's  a  certain  disease — ^to  make  a  very  poor  joke, 
call  it  'Pendycitis' — ^with  which  most  of  these  people 
are  infected.  They  're  'crass.'  They  do  things,  but 
they  do  them  the  wrong  way !  They  muddle  through 
with  the  greatest  possible  ^amount  of  unnecessary 
labour  and  suffering!  It  *s  part  of  the  hereditary 
principle.  I  have  n't  had  to  do  with  them  thirty- 
five  years  for  nothing!" 

Gregory  turned  his  face  away. 

"  Your  joke  is  very  poor,  "he  said.  "  I  don't  believe 
they  are  like  that!  I  won't  admit  it.  If  there  is 
such  a  disease,  it  's  our  business  to  find  a  remedy. " 

"Nothing  but  an  operation  will  cure  it,"  said  Mr. 
Paramor,  "and  before  operating  there  *s  a  prelimi- 
nary process  to  be  gone  through.  It  was  discovered 
by  Lister. " 

Gregory  answered: 

"Paramor,  I  hate  your  pessimism!" 

Mr.  Paramor's  eyes  haunted  Gregory's  back. 

"But  I  am  not  a  pessimist, "  he  said.     "  Far  from  it. 

"'When  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue, 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white, 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue 

Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight. 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree '  *' 

Gregory  turned  on  him. 

"How  can  you  quote  poetry,  and  hold  the  views 
you  do?    We  ought  to  construct " 

"You  want  to  build  before  you  've  laid  your  foun- 
dations," said  Mr.  Paramor.  "You  let  your  feelings 
carry  you  away,  Vigil.  The  state  of  the  marriage 
law?   is   only   a   symptom.     It  's   this  disease,  this 


1 86  The  Country  House 

grudging  narrow  spirit  in  men,  that  makes  such  laws 
necessary.  Unlovely  men,  unlovely  laws — ^what  can 
you  expect?" 

"I  will  never  believe  that  we  shall  be  content  to 
go  on  living  in  a  slough  of — of " 

** Provincialism!"  said  Mr.  Paramor.  *'You  should 
take  to  gardening;  it  makes  one  recognise  what  you 
idealists  seem  to  pass  over — ^that  men,  my  dear  friend, 
are,  like  plants,  creatures  of  heredity  and  environ- 
ment; their  growth  is  slow.  You  can't  get  grapes 
from  thorns,  Vigil,  or  figs  from  thistles — ^at  least,  not 
in  one  generation — ^however  busy  and  hungry  you 
may  be!" 

''Your  theory  degrades  us  all  to  the  level  of 
thistles." 

**  Social  laws  depend  for  their  strength  on  the  harm 
they  have  it  in  their  power  to  inflict,  and  that  harm 
depends  for  its  strength  on  the  ideals  held  by  the  man 
on  whom  the  harm  falls.  If  you  marry  a  girl  below 
you  in  rank,  or  give  up  your  property  and  take  to 
Brotherhood,  you  '11  have  a  very  thistley  time,  but 
you  won't  mind  that  if  you  're  a  fig.  And  so  on  ad 
lib.  It  's  odd,  though,  how  soon  the  thistles  that 
thought  themselves  figs  get  found  out.  There  are 
many  things  I  hate,  Vigil.  One  is  extravagance, 
and  another  humbug!" 

But  Gregory  stood  looking  at  the  sky. 

"We  seem  to  have  wandered  from  the  point,"  said 
Mr.  Paramor,  "and  I  think  we  had  better  go  in.  It  *s 
nearly  eleven." 

Throughout  the  length  of  the  low  white  house 
there  were  but  three  windows  lighted,  three  eyes 
looking  at  the  moon,  a  fairy  shallop  sailing  the  night 
sky.     The   cedar- trees   stood   black   as    pitch.     The 


Definition  of  '^Pendycitis''  187 

old  brown  owl  had  ceased  his  hooting.     Mr.  Paramor 
gripped  Gregory  by  the  arm. 

"A  nightingale!  Did  you  hear  him  down  in  that 
spinney?  It  's  a  sweet  place,  this!  I  don't  wonder 
Pendyce  is  fond  of  it.  You're  not  a  fisherman,  I 
think  ?  Did  you  ever  watch  a  school  of  fishes  coasting 
along  a  bank?  How  bUnd  they  are,  and  how  they 
follow  their  leader !  In  our  element  we  men  know 
just  about  as  much  as  the  fishes  do.  A  blind  lot, 
Vigil !  We  take  a  mean  view  of  things ;  we  're  damna-^ 
bly  provincial!" 

Gregory  pressed  his  hands  to  his  forehead. 
"I  'm  trying  to  think,"  he  said,  "what  will  be  the 
consequences  to  my  ward  of  this  divorce. " 

"My  friend,  listen  to  some  plain  speaking.  Your 
ward  and  her  husband  and  George  Pendyce  are  just 
the  sort  of  people  for  whom  our  law  of  divorce  is 
framed.  They  've  all  three  got  courage,  they  're  a^U 
reckless  and  obstinate,  and — ^forgive  me — thick- 
skinned.  Their  case,  if  fought,  will  take  a  week  of 
hard  swearing,  a  week  of  the  public's  money  and 
time.  It  will  give  admirable  opportunities  to  eminent 
counsel,  excellent  reading  to  the  general  public, 
first-rate  sport  all  round.  The  papers  will  have  a 
regular  carnival.  I  repeat,  they  are  the  very  people 
for  whom  our  law  of  divorce  is  framed.  There  's  a 
great  deal  to  be  said  for  publicity,  but  all  the  same 
it  puts  a  premium  on  insensibility,  and  causes  a  vast 
amount  of  suffering  to  innocent  people.  I  told  you 
once  before,  to  get  a  divorce,  even  if  you  deserve  it, 
you  must  n't  be  a  sensitive  person.  Those  three  will 
go  through  it  all  splendidly,  but  every  scrap  of  skin 
will  be  torn  off  you  and  our  poor  friends  down  here, 
and  the  result  will  be  a  drawn  battle  at  the  end ! 


1 88  The  Country  House 

That  *s  if  it  's  fought,  and  if  it  comes  on  I  don't  see 
how  we  can  let  it  go  unfought;  it  *s  contrary  to  my 
instincts.  If  we  let  it  go  undefended,  mark  my 
words,  your  ward  and  George  Pendyce  will  be  tired 
of  each  other  before  the  law  allows  them  to  marry, 
and  George,  as  his  father  says,  for  the  sake  of  'mo- 
rality, '  will  have  to  marry  a  woman  who  is  tired  of 
him,  or  of  whom  he  is  tired.  Now  you  've  got  it 
straight  from  the  shoulder,  and  I  'm  going  up  to  bed. 
It  's  a  heavy  dew.     Lock  this  door  after  you!" 

Mr.  Paramor  made  his  way  into  the  conservatory. 
He  stopped  and  came  back. 

"Pendyce,"  he  said,  "perfectly  understands  all 
I  *ve  been  telling  you.  He  *d  give  his  eyes  for  the 
case  not  to  come  on,  but  you  '11  see  he  '11  rub  every- 
thing up  the  wrong  way,  and  it  '11  be  a  miracle  if  we 
succeed.  That 's  *  Pendycitis !  *  We '  ve  all  got  a  touch 
of  it.     Good-night!" 

Gregory  was  left  alone  outside  the  country  house 
with  his  big  star.  And  as  his  thoughts  were  seldom 
of  an  impersonal  kind  he  did  not  reflect  on  "Pen- 
dycitis," but  on  Helen  Bellew.  And  the  longer  he 
thought  the  more  he  thought  of  her  as  he  desired  to 
think,  for  this  was  natural  to  him;  and  ever  more 
ironical  grew  the  twinkling  of  his  star  above  the 
spmney  where  the  nightingale  was  singing. 


CHAPTER  X 

GEORGB  GOES  FOR  THE  GLOVES 

ON  the  Thursday  of  the  Epsom  Summer  Meeting, 
George  Pendyce  sat  in  the  corner  of  a  first- 
class  railway- carriage  trying  to  make  two  and  two 
into  five.  On  a  sheet  of  Stoics'  Club  note-paper  his 
racing- debts  were  stated  to  a  penny — one  thousand 
and  forty-five  pounds  overdue,  and  below,  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  lost  at  the  current  meeting.  Below 
these  again  his  private  debts  were  indicated  by  the 
round  figure  of  one  thousand  pounds.  It  was  round 
by  courtesy,  for  he  had  only  calculated  those  bills 
which  had  been  sent  in,  and  Providence,  which  knows 
all  things,  preferred  the  rounder  figure  of  fifteen  hund- 
red. In  sum,  therefore,  he  had  against  him  a  total  of 
three  thousand  two  hundred  and  ninety- five  pounds. 
And  since  at  Tattersall's  and  the  Stock  Exchange, 
where  men  are  engaged  in  perpetual  motion,  an 
almost  absurd  punctiliousness  is  required  in  the 
payment  of  those  sums  which  have  for  the  moment 
inadvertently  been  lost,  seventeen  hundred  and 
ninety- five  of  this  must  infallibly  be  raised  by  Monday 
next.  Indeed,  only  a  certain  liking  for  George,  a 
good  loser  and  a  good  winner,  and  the  fear  of  dropping 
a  good  customer,  had  induced  the  firm  of  bookmakers 
to  let  that  debt  of  one  thousand  and  forty- five  stand 
over  the  Epsom  Meeting. 
To  set  against  these  sums  (in  which  he  had  not 
180 


190  The  Country  House 

counted  his  current  trainer's  bill,  and  the  expenses, 
which  he  could  not  calculate,  of  the  divorce  suit), 
he  had,  first,  a  bank  balance  which  he  might  still 
overdraw  another  twenty  pounds,  secondly,  the 
Ambler  and  two  bad  selling  platers,  and  thirdly  (more 
considerable  item),  X,  or  that  which  he  might,  or 
indeed  must,  win  over  the  Ambler's  race  this  after- 
noon. 

Whatever  else,  it  was  not  pluck  that  was  lacking 
in  the  character  of  George  Pendyce.  This  quality 
was  in  his  fibre,  in  the  consistency  of  his  blood,  and 
confronted  with  a  situation  which,  to  some  men,  and 
especially  to  men  not  brought  up  on  the  hereditary 
plan,  might  have  seemed  desperate,  he  exhibited 
no  sign  of  anxiety  or  distress.  Into  the  consideration 
of  his  difficulties  he  imported  certain  principles: 
(i)  He  did  not  intend  to  be  posted  at  Tattersall's. 
Sooner  than  that  he  would  go  to  the  Jews;  the  entail 
was  all  he  could  look  to  borrow  on;  the  Hebrews 
would  force  him  to  pay  through  the  nose.  (2)  He  v 
did  not  intend  to  show  the  white  feather,  and  in 
backing  his  horse  meant  to  "go  for  the  gloves." 
(3)  He  did  not  intend  to  think  of  the  future;  the 
thought  of  the  present  was  quite  bad  enough. 

The  train  bounded  and  swung  as  though  rushing  on- 
wards to  a  tune,  and  George  sat  quietly  in  his  corner. 

Amongst  his  fellows  in  the  carriage  was  the  Hon. 
Geoffrey  Winlow,  who,  though  not  a  racing  man,  took 
a  kindly  interest  in  our  breed  of  horses,  which  by 
attendance  at  the.  principal  meetings  he  hoped  to 
improve. 

"Your  horse  going  to  run,  George?" 

George  nodded. 

"I  shall  have  a  fiver  on  him  for  luck.     I  c^n't 


George  Goes  for  the  Gloves         19^ 

afford  to  bet.     Saw  your  mother  at  the  Foxholme 
garden-party  last  week.     You  seen  them  lately?" 

George  shook  his  head  and  felt  an  odd  squeeze 
at  his  heart. 

"You  know  they  had  a  fire  at  old  Peacock's  farm; 
I  hear  the  Squire  and  Barter  did  wonders.  He  's  as 
game  as  a  pebble,  the  Squire. " 

Again  George  nodded,  and  again  felt  that  squeeze 
at  his  heart. 

"Aren  't  they  coming  to  town  this  season?" 

"Haven't  heard,"  answered  George:  "Have  a 
cigar?" 

Winlow  took  a  cigar,  and  cutting  it  with  a  small 
penknife,  scrutinised  George's  square  face  with  his 
leisurely  eyes.  It  needed  a  physiognomist  to  pene- 
trate its  impassivity.     Winlow  thought  to  himself: 

"I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  what  they  say  about 
old  George  is  true.  .  .  .     Had  a  good  meeting  so  far  ? " 

"So-so." 

They  parted  on  the  race-course.  George  went  at 
once  to  see  his  trainer  and  thence  into  Tattersall's 
ring.  He  took  with  him  that  equation  with  X^  and 
sought  the  society  of  two  gentlemen  quietly  dressed, 
one  of  whom  was  making  a  note  in  a  litt  le  book  with 
a  gold  pencil.  They  greeted  him  respectfully,  for 
it  was  to  them  that  he  owed  the  bulk  of  that  seven- 
teen hundred  and  ninety-five  pounds. 

"What  price  will  you  lay  against  my  horse?" 

"Evens,  Mr.  Pendyce,"  replied  the  gentleman  with 
the  gold  pencil,  "to  a  monkey." 

George  booked  the  bet.  It  was  not  his  usua^  way 
of  doing  business,  but  to-day  everything  seemed 
different,  and  something  stronger  than  custom  ^s.^ 
at  work. 


192  The  Country  House 

"I  am  going  for  the  gloves,"  he  thought;  *'if  it 
does  n't  come  off,  I  'm  done  anyhow. " 

He  went  to  another  quietly  dressed  gentleman 
with  a  diamond  pin  and  a  Jewish  face.  And  as  he 
went  from  one  quietly  dressed  gentleman  to  another 
there  preceded  him  some  subtle  messenger,  who 
breathed  the  words:  "Mr.  Pendyce  is  going  for  the 
gloves,"  so  that  at  each  visit  he  found  they  had 
greater  confidence  than  ever  in  his  horse.  Soon  he 
had  promised  to  pay  two  thousand  pounds  if  the 
Ambler  lost,  and  received  the  assurance  of  eminent 
gentlemen,  quietly  dressed,  that  they  would  pay 
him  fifteen  hundred  if  the  Ambler  won.  The  odds 
now  stood  at  two  to  one  on,  and  he  had  found  it  im- 
possible to  back  the  Ambler  for  "a  place,"  in  ac- 
cordance with  his  custom. 

"  Made  a  fool  of  myself, "  he  thought ;  "  ought  never 
to  have  gone  into  the  ring  at  all ;  ought  to  have  let 
Barney's  work  it  quietly.     But  what  does  it  matter.'* " 

He  still  required  to  win  three  hundred  pounds  to 
settle  on  the  Monday,  and  laid  a  final  bet  of  seven 
hundred  to  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  upon 
his  horse.  Thus,  without  spending  a  penny,  simply 
by  making  a  few  promises,  he  had  solved  the  equation 
with  X. 

On  leaving  the  ring  he  entered  the  bar  and  drank 
some  whiskey.  He  then  went  to  the  paddock.  The 
starting-bell  for  the  second  race  had  rung;  there  was 
hardly  any  one  there,  but  in  a  far  corner  the  Ambler 
was  being  led  up  and  down  by  a  boy.  George  glanced 
round  to  see  that  no  acquaintances  were  near,  and 
joined  in  this  promenade.  The  Ambler  turned  his 
black,  wild  eye,  crescented  with  white.,  threw  up  his 
head,  and  gazed  far  into  the  distance. 


George  Goes  for  the  Gloves        193 

"  If  one  could  only  make  him  understand ! "  thought 
George. 

When  his  horse  left  the  paddock  for  the  starting- 
post  George  went  back  to  the  stand.  At  the  bar  he 
drank  some  more  whiskey,  and  heard  some  one  say: 

"I  had  to  lay  six  to  four.  I  want  to  find  Pendyce; 
they  say  he  's  backed  it  heavily." 

George  put  down  his  glass,  and  instead  of  going  to 
his  usual  place,  mounted  slowly  to  the  top  of  the 
stand. 

"  I  don't  want  them  buzzing  round  me, "  he  thought. 

At  the  top  of  the  stand — that  national  monument, 
visible  for  twenty  miles  around — he  knew  himself 
to  be  safe.  Only  "the  many"  came  here,  and 
amongst  the  many  he  thrust  himself  till  at  the  very 
top  be  could  rest  his  glasses  on  a  rail  and  watch  the 
colours.  Besides  his  own  peacock  blue  there  was  a 
straw,  a  blue  with  white  stripes,  a  red  with  white 
stars. 

They  say  that  through  the  minds  of  drowning  men 
troop  ghosts  of  past  experience.  It  was  not  so  with 
George;  his  soul  was  fastened  on  that  little  daub  of 
peacock  blue.  Below  the  glasses  his  lips  were  colour- 
less from  hard  compression;  he  moistened  them 
continually.  The  four  little  coloiired  daubs  stole 
into  line,  the  flag  fell. 

"They  're  off!"  That  roar,  like  the  cry  of  a  mon- 
ster, sounded  all  around.  George  steadied  his 
glasses  on  the  rail.  Blue  with  white  stripes  was 
leading,  the  Ambler  lying  last.  Thus  they  came 
round  the  further  bend.  And  Providence,  as  though 
determined  that  some  one  should  benefit  by  his 
absorption,  sent  a  hand  sliding  under  George's  el- 
bows, to  remove  the  pin  from  his  tie  and  slide  away. 
13 


194  The  Country  House 

Round  Tattenham  Corner  George  saw  his  horse  take 
the  lead.  So,  with  Straw  closing  up,  they  came  into 
the  straight.  The  Ambler's  jockey  looked  back  and 
raised  his  whip ;  in  that  instant,  as  if  by  magic,  Straw 
drew  level;  down  came  the  whip  on  the  Amblor's 
flank;  again  as  by  magic.  Straw  was  in  front.  The 
saying  of  his  old  jockey  darted  through  George's  mind. 
"Mark  my  words,  sir,  that  'orse  knows  what 's  what, 
and  when  they  're  like  that  they're  best  let  alone." 

"Sit  still,  you  fool!"  he  muttered. 

The  whip  came  down  again ;  Straw  was  two  lengths 
in  front. 

Some  one  behind  said:  ' 

"The  favourite 's  beat!" 

But  as  though  George's  groan  had  found  its  way 
to  the  jockey's  ears,  he  dropped  his  whip.  The 
Ambler  sprang  forward.  George  saw  that  he  was 
gaining.  All  his  soul  went  out  to  his  horse's  struggle. 
In  each  of  those  fifteen  seconds  he  died  and  was  bom , 
again;  with  each  stride  all  that  was  loyal  and  brave 
in  his  nature  leaped  into  flame,  all  that  was  base  sank, 
for  he  himself  was  racing  with  his  horse,  and  the 
sweat  poured  down  his  brow.  And  his  lips  babbled  - 
broken  sounds  that  no  one  heard,  for  all  around  were 
babbling  too. 

Locked  together,  the  Ambler  and  Straw  ran  home. 
Then  followed  a  hush,  for  no  one  knew  which  of  the 
two   had  won.     The  numbers  went  upr   "Seven-^* 
Two— Five." 

"The  favourite  's  second!  Beaten  by  a  nose!" 
said  a  voice. 

George  bowed  his  head,  and  his  whole  spirit  felt 
numb.  He  closed  his  glasses  and  moved  with  the 
crowd  to  the  stairs.     A  voice  behind  him  said; 


George  Goes  for  the  Gloves       195 

"He  'd  have  won  in  another  stride!" 

Another  answered: 

"I  hate  that  sort  of  horse.  He  curled  up  at  the 
whip. " 

George  ground  his  teeth. 

"Curse  you!"  he  muttered,  "you  little  cockney; 
what  do  you  know  about  a  horse?" 

The  crowd  surged;  the  speakers  were  lost  to  sight. 

The  long  descent  from  the  stand  gave  him  time. 
No  trace  of  emotion  showed  on  his  face  when  he 
appeared  in  the  paddock.  Blacksmith  the  trainer 
stood  by  the  Ambler's  stall. 

"That  idiot  Tipping  lost  us  the  race,  sir,"  he  began 
with  quivering  lips.  "If  he  'd  only  left  him  alone, 
the  horse  would  have  won  in  a  canter.  What  on 
earth  made  him  use  his  whip?  He  deserves  to  lose 
his  licence.     He " 

The  gall  and  bitterness  of  defeat  surged  into 
George's  brain. 

"It  's  no  good  your  talking,  Blacksmith,"  he  said; 
"you  put  him  up.  What  the  devil  made  you  quarrel 
with  Swells?" 

The  little  man's  chin  dropped  in  sheer  surprise. 

George  turned  away,  and  went  up  to  the  jockey, 
but  at  the  sick  look  on  the  poor  youth's  face  the 
angry  words  died  off  his  tongue. 

"All  right,  Tipping;  I  'm  not  going  to  rag  you." 
And  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile  he  passed  into  the 
Ambler's  stall.  The  groom  had  just  finished  putting 
him  to  rights,  the  horse  stood  ready  to  be  led  from 
the  field  of  his  defeat.  The  groom  moved  out,  and 
George  went  to  the  Ambler's  head.  There  is  no  place, 
no  comer,  on  a  race-course  where  a  man  may  show 
his  heart.     George  did  but  lay  his  forehead  against 


19^  The  Country  House 

the  velvet  of  his  horse's  muzzle,  and  for  one  short 
second  held  it  there.  The  Ambler  awaited  the  end 
of  that  brief  caress,  then  with  a  snort  threw  up  his 
head,  and  with  his  wild,  soft  eyes  seemed  saying, 
**  You  fools!  what  do  you  know  of  me?" 

George  stepped  to  one  side. 

"Take  him  away,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes  followed 
the  Ambler's  receding  form. 

A  racing  man  of  a  different  race,  whom  he  knew 
and  did  not  like,  came  up  to  him  as  he  left  the  pad- 
dock. 

"I  thuppothe  you  won't  thell  your  horthe,  Pen- 
dyce.?  "  he  said.  "I  '11  give  you  five  thou,  for  him.  He 
ought  never  to  have  lotht;  the  beating  won't  help 
him  with  the  handicappers  a  little  bit. " 

"You  carrion  crow!"  thought  George. 

"Thanks;  he  's  not  for  sale. " 

He  went  back  to  the  stand,  but  at  every  step  and 
in  each  face,  he  seemed  to  see  the  equation  which 
now  he  could  only  solve  with  X2.  Thrice  he  went 
into  the  bar.  It  was  on  the  last  of  these  occasions 
that  he  said  to  himself:  "The  horse  must  go.  I  shall 
never  have  a  horse  like  him  again." 

Over  that  green  down  which  a  hundred  thousand 
feet  had  trodden  brown,  which  a  hundred  thousand 
hands  had  strewn  with  bits  of  paper,  cigar  ends,  and 
the  fragments  of  discarded  food,  over  the  great  ap- 
proaches to  the  battle-field,  where  all  was  pathway 
leading  to  and  from  the  fight,  those  who  make  liveli- 
hood in  such  a  fashion,  least  and  littlest  followers, 
were  bawling,  hawking,  whining  to  the  warriors 
flushed  with  victory  or  wearied  by  defeat.  Over 
that  green  down,  between  one-legged  men  and  ragged 
acrobats,  women  with  babies  at  the  breast,  thimble- 


George  Goes  for  the  Gloves       197 

riggers,  touts,  walked  George  Pendyce,  his  mouth 
hard  set  and  his  head  bent  down 

"Good  luck,  Captain,  good  luck  to-morrow;  good 
luck,  good  luck!  .  .  .  For  the  love  of  Gawd,  your 
lordship!  .  .  .     Roll,  bowl,  or  pitch!" 

The  sun,  flaming  out  after  long  hiding,  scorched 
the  back  of  his  neck;  the  free  down  wind,  fouled  by 
foetid  odours,  brought  to  his  ears  the  monster's  last 
cry,  "They  're  off!" 

A  voice  hailed  him. 

George  turned  and  saw  Winlow,  and  with  a  curse 
and  a  smile  he  answered: 

"Hallo!" 

The  Hon.  Geoffrey  ranged  alongside,  examining 
George's  face  at  leisure. 

"Afraid  you  had  a  bad  race,  old  chap!  I  hear 
you  'vesold  the  Ambler  to  that  fellow  Guilderstein. " 

In  George's  heart  something  snapped. 

"Already?"  he  thought.  "The  brute  's  been  crow- 
ing. And  it 's  that  little  bounder  that  my  horse — my 
horse " 

He  answered  calmly: 

"Wanted  the  money." 

Winlow,  who  was  not  lacking  in  cool  discretion, 
changed  the  subject. 

Late  that  evening  George  sat  in  the  Stoics'  window 
overlooking  Piccadilly.  Before  his  eyes,  shaded  by 
his  hand,  the  hansoms  passed,  flying  East  and  West, 
each  with  the  single  pale  disc  of  face,  or  the  twin  discs 
of  faces  close  together ;  and  the  gentle  roar  of  the  town 
came  in,  and  the  cool  air  refreshed  by  night.  In  the 
light  of  the  lamps  the  trees  of  the  Green  Park  stood 
burnished  out  of  deep  shadow  where  nothing  moved; 
and  high  over  all,  the  stars  and  purple  sky  seemed 


198  The  Country  House 

veiled  with  golden  gauze.  Figures  without  end  filed 
by.  Some  glanced  at  the  lighted  windows  and  the 
man  in  the  white  shirt-front  sitting  there.  And  many- 
thought:  "Wish  I  were  that  swell,  with  nothing  to 
do  but  step  into  his  father's  shoes,"  and  to  many 
-no  thought  came.  But  now  and  then  some  passer 
murmured  to  himself;  "Looks  lonely,  sitting  there." 
And  to  those  faces  gazing  up,  George's  lips  were 
grim,  and  over  them  came  and  went  a  little  bitter 
smile;  but  on  his  forehead  he  felt  still  the  touch  of 
his  horse's  muzzle,  and  his  eyes,  which  none  could 
see,  were  dark  with  pain. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MR.   BARTER  TAKES  A  WALK 

THE  event  at  the  Rectory  was  expected  every 
moment.  The  Rector,  who  practically  never 
suffered,  disliked  the  thought  and  sight  of  others' 
suffering.  Up  to  this  day,  indeed,  there  had  been 
none  to  dislike,  for  in  answer  to  inquiries  his  wife 
had  always  said:  "No,  dear,  no;  I  'm  all  right- 
really,  it  's  nothing."  And  she  had  always  said 
it  smiling,  even  when  her  smiling  lips  were  white. 
But  this  morning  in  trying  to  say  it  she  had  failed 
to  smile.  Her  eyes  had  lost  their  hopelessly  hopeful 
shining,  and  sharply  between  her  teeth  she  said: 
"Send  for  Dr.  Wilson,  Hussell. " 

The  Rector  kissed  her,  shutting  his  eyes,  for  he 
was  afraid  of  her  face  with  its  lips  drawn  back,  and 
its  discoloured  cheeks.  In  five  minutes  the  groom 
was  hastening  te  Cornmarket  on  the  roan  cob,  and 
the  Rector  stood  in  his  study,  looking  from  one  to 
another  of  his  household  gods,  as  though  calling 
them  to  his  assistance.  At  last  he  took  down  a  bat 
and  began  oiling  it.  Sixteen  years  ago,  when  Hussell 
was  born,  he  had  been  overtaken  with  sounds  that 
he  had  never  to  this  day  forgotten;  they  had  clung 
to  the  nerves  of  his  memory,  and  for  no  reward  would 
he  hear  them  again.  They  had  never  been  uttered 
since,  for  like  most  wives,  his  wife  was  a  heroine; 
but,  used  as  he  was  to  this  event,  the  Rector  had 

199 


ioo  The  Country  House 

ever  since  suffered  from  panic.  It  was  as  though 
Providence,  storing  all  the  anxiety  which  he  might 
have  felt  throughout,  let  him  have  it  with  a  rush  at 
the  last  moment.  He  put  the  bat  back  into  its  case, 
corked  the  oil-bottle,  and  again  stood  looking  at  his 
household  gods.  None  came  to  his  aid.  And  his 
thoughts  were  as  they  had  nine  times  been  before. 
**I  ought  not  to  go  out.  I  ought  to  wait  for  Wilson. 
Suppose  anything  were  to  happen.  Still,  nurse  is 
with  her,  and  I  can  do  nothing.  Poor  Rose — poor 
darling !  It  's  my  duty  to — What's  that  ?  I  'm  better 
out  of  the  way." 

Softly,  without  knowing  that  it  was  softly,  he 
opened  the  door;  softly,  without  knowing  it  was 
softly,  he  stepped  to  the  hat-rack  and  took  his  black 
straw  hat;  softly,  without  knowing  it  was  softly,  he 
went  out,  and,  unfaltering,  hurried  down  the  drive. 
Three  minutes  later  he  appeared  again,  approaching 
the  house  faster  than  he  had  set  forth.  He  passed 
the  hall  door,  ran  up  the  stairs,  and  entered  his  wife's 
room. 

"Rose,  dear,  Rose,  can  I  do  anything?" 
Mrs.  Barter  put  out  her  hand,  a  gleam  of  malice 
shot  into  her  eyes.     Through  her  set  lips  came  a 
vague  murmur,  and  the  words: 

"No,  dear,  nothing.  Better  go  for  your  walk. " 
Mr.  Barter  pressed  his  lips  to  her  quivering  hand, 
and  backed  from  the  room.  Outside  the  door  he 
struck  at  the  air  with  his  fist,  and  running  down-stairs, 
was  once  more  lost  to  sight.  Faster  and  faster  he 
walked,  leaving  the  village  behind,  and  among  the 
country  sights  and  sounds  and  scents  his  nerves  began 
to  recover.  He  was  able  to  think  again  of  other 
things:    of    Cecil's    school    report — far    from    satis- 


Mr.  Barter  Takes  a  Walk         201 

factory;  of  old  Hermon  in  the  village,  whom  he  sus- 
pected of  overdoing  his  bronchitis  with  an  eye  to 
port;  of  the  return  match  with  Coldingham,  and  his 
belief  that  their  left-hand  bowler  only  wanted 
"hitting";  of  the  new  edition  of  hymn-books,  and 
the  slackness  of  the  upper  village  in  attending  church 
— five  households  less  honest  and  ductile  than  the 
rest,  a  foreign  look  about  them.,  dark  people,  un- 
English.  In  thinking  of  these  things  he  forgot  what 
he  wanted  to  forget ;  but  hearing  the  sound  of  wheels, 
he  entered  a  field  as  though  to  examine  the  crops 
until  the  vehicle  had  passed.  It  was  not  Wilson, 
but  it  might  have  been,  and  at  the  next  turning  he 
unconsciously  branched  off  the  Cornmarket  road. 

It  was  noon  when  he  came  within  sight  of  Cold- 
ingham, six  miles  from  Worsted  Skeynes.  He  would 
have  enjoyed  a  glass  of  beer,  but,  unable  to  enter  the 
public-house,  he  went  into  the  churchyard  instead. 
He  sat  down  on  a  bench  beneath  a  sycamore  opposite 
the  Winlow  graves,  for  Coldingham  was  Lord  Mon- 
trossor's  seat,  and  it  was  here  that  all  the  Winlows 
lay.  Bees  were  busy  above  them  in  the  branches, 
and  Mr.  Barter  thought: 

**  Beautiful  site.  We  've  nothing  like  this  at  Worsted 
Skeynes.   ..." 

But  suddenly  he  found  that  he  could  not  sit  there 
and  think.  Suppose  his  wife  were  to  die!  It  hap- 
pened sometimes;  the  wife  of  John  Tharp  of  Bletch- 
ingham  had  died  in  giving  birth  to  her  tenth  child! 
His  forehead  was  wet,  and  he  wiped  it.  Casting  an 
angry  glance  at  the  Winlow  graves,  he  left  the  seat. 

He  went  down  by  the  further  path,  and  came  out 
on  the  green.  A  cricket-match  was  going  on,  and 
•p  spite  of  himself  the  Rector  stopped.     The  Colding- 


202  The  Country  House 

ham  team  were  in  the  field.  Mr.  Barter  watched. 
As  he  had  thought,  that  left-hand  bowler  bowled  a 
good  pace,  and  "came  in"  from  the  off,  but  his 
length  was  poor,  very  poor!  A  determined  batsman 
would  soon  knock  him  off !  He  moved  into  line  with 
the  wickets  to  see  how  much  the  fellow  "came  in," 
and  he  grew  so  absorbed  that  he  did  not  at  first  notice 
the  Hon.  Geoffrey  Winlow  in  pads  and  a  blue  and 
green  blazer,  smoking  a  cigarette  astride  of  a  camp- 
stool. 

"Ah,  Winlow%  it  's  your  team  against  the  village. 
Afraid  I  can't  stop  to  see  you  bat.  I  was  just  passing 
— matter  I  had  to  attend  to — must  get  back!" 

The  real  solemnity  of  his  face  excited  Winlow's 
curiosity. 

"Can't  you  stop  and  have  lunch  with  us.**" 

"No,  no;  my  wife Must  get  back — must  get 

back!" 

Winlow  murmured: 

"Ah,  yes;  of  course."  His  leisurely  blue  eyes, 
al"\;\^ays  in  command  of  the  situation,  rested  on  the 
Rector's  heated  face.  "By  the  way,"  he  said,  "I  'm 
afraid  George  Pendyce  is  rather  hard  hit.  Been 
obliged  to  sell  his  horse.  I  saw  him  at  Epsom  the 
week  before  last. " 

The  Rector  brightened. 

"I  made  certain  he  'd  come  to  grief  over  that  bet- 
ting, "  he  said.    "  I  'm  very  sorry — very  sorry  indeed. " 

"They  say,"  went  on  Winlow,  "that  he  dropped 
four  thousand  over  the  Thursday  race.  He  was 
pretty  well  dipped  before,  I  know.  Poor  old  George! 
such  an  awfully  good  chap!" 

"Ah,"  repeated  Mr.  Barter,  "I  'm  very  sorry — very 
sorry  indeed.     Things  were  bad  enough  as  it  was, " 


Mr.  Barter  Takes  a  Walk         203 

A  ray  of  interest  illumined  the  leisureliness  of  the 
Hon.  Geoffrey's  eyes. 

"You  mean  about  Mrs. H'm,  yes?"  he  said, 

"People  are  talking;  you  can't  stop  that.  I  'm 
so  sorry  for  the  poor  Squire,  and  Mrs.  Pendyce.  I 
hope  something  '11  be  done." 

The  Rector  frowned. 

"I  've  done  my  best, "  he  said.  "Well  hit,  sir!  I  Ve 
always  said  that  any  one  with  a  little  pluck  can  knock 
off  that  left-hand  man  you  think  so  much  of.  He 
'comes  in'  a  bit,  but  he  bowls  a  shocking  bad  length. 
Here  I  am  dawdling.     I  must  get  back!" 

And  once  more  that  real  solemnity  came  over 
Mr.  Barter's  face. 

"I  suppose  you'll  be  playing  for  Coldingham 
against  us  on  Thursday?     Good-bye!" 

Nodding  in  response  to  Winlow's  salute,  he  walked 
away. 

He  avoided  the  churchyard,  and  took  a  path  across 
the  fields.  He  was  hungry  and  thirsty.  In  one  of 
his  sermons  there  occurred  this  passage:  "We  should 
habituate  ourselves  to  hold  our  appetites  in  check. 
By  constantly  accustoming  ourselves  to  abstinence — 
little  abstinences  in  our  daily  life — we  alone  can 
attain  to  that  true  spirituality,  without  which  we 
cannot  hope  to  know  God. "  And  it  was  well  known 
throughout  his  household  and  the  village  that  the 
Rector's  temper  was  almost  dangerously  spiritual 
if  anything  detained  him  from  his  meals.  For  he 
was  a  man  physiologically  sane  and  healthy  to  the 
core,  whose  digestion  and  functions,  strong,  regular, 
and  straightforward  as  the  day,  made  calls  upon  him 
which  would  not  be  denied.  After  preaching  that 
particular  sermon,  he  frequently  for  a  week  or  more 


204  The  Country  House 

denied  himself  a  second  glass  of  ale  at  lunch,  or  his 
after-dinner  cigar,  smoking  a  pipe  instead.  And  he 
was  perfectly  honest  in  his  belief  that  he  attained  a 
greater  spirituality  thereby,  and  perhaps  indeed  he 
did.  But  even  if  he  did  not,  there  was  no  one  to 
notice  this,  for  the  majority  of  his  flock  accepted 
his  spirituality  as  matter  of  course,  and  of  the  insig- 
nificant minority  there  were  few  who  did  not  make 
allowance  for  the  fact  that  he  was  their  pastor  by 
virtue  of  necessity,  by  virtue  of  a  system  which  had 
placed  him  there  almost  mechanically,  whether  he 
would  or  no.  Indeed,  they  respected  him  the  more 
that  he  was  their  Rector,  and  could  not  be  removed, 
and  were  glad  that  theirs  was  no  common  Vicar  like 
that  of  Coldingham,  dependent  on  the  caprices  of 
others.  For,  with  the  exception  of  two  bad  char- 
acters and  one  atheist,  the  whole  village.  Conserv- 
atives or  Liberals  (there  were  Liberals  now  that  they 
were  beginning  to  believe  that  the  ballot  was  really 
secret)  were  believers  in  the  hereditary  system. 

Insensibly  the  Rector  directed  himself  towards 
Bletchingham,  where  there  was  a  temperance  house. 
At  heart  he  loathed  lemonade  and  ginger-beer  in 
the  middle  of  the  day,  both  of  which  made  his  economy 
cold  and  uneasy,  but  he  felt  he  could  go  nowhere 
else.  And  his  spirit  rose  at  the  sight  of  Bletching- 
ham spire. 

"  Bread  and  cheese, "  he  thought.  "  What  's  better 
than  bread  and  cheese?  And  they  shall  make  me 
a  cup  of  coffee. " 

In  that  cup  of  coffee  there  was  something  sym- 
bolic and  fitting  to  his  mental  state.  It  was  agi- 
tated and  thick,  and  impregnated  with  the  peculiar 
flavour  of  country  coffee.     He  swallowed  but  little. 


Mr.  Barter  Takes  a  Walk         205 

and  resumed  his  march.  At  the  first  turning  he 
passed  the  village  school,  whence  issued  a  rhythmic 
but  discordant  hum,  suggestive  of  some  dull  ma- 
chine that  had  served  its  time.  The  Rector  paused 
to  listen.  Leaning  on  the  wall  of  the  little  play- 
yard,  he  tried  to  make  out  the  words  that,  like  a 
religious  chant,  were  being  intoned  within.  It 
sounded  like,  "Twice  two  's  four,  twice  four  *s  six, 
twice  six  's  eight,"  and  he  passed  on,  thinking,  "A 
fine  thing;  but  if  we  don't  take  care  we  shall  go  too 
far;  we  shall  unfit  them  for  their  stations,"  and  he 
frowned.  Crossing  a  stile,  he  took  a  footpath.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  singing  of  larks,  and  the  bees  were 
pulling  down  the  clover-stalks.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  field  was  a  little  pond  overhung  with  willows. 
On  a  bare  strip  of  pasture,  within  thirty  yards,  in 
the  full  sun,  an  old  horse  was  tethered  to  a  peg.  It 
stood  with  its  face  towards  the  pond,  baring  its 
yellow  teeth,  and  stretching  out  its  head,  all  bone 
and  hollows,  to  the  water  which  it  could  not  reach. 
The  Rector  stopped.  He  did  not  know  the  horse 
personally,  for  it  was  three  fields  short  of  his  parish, 
but  he  saw  that  the  poor  beast  wanted  water.  He 
went  up,  and  finding  that  the  knot  of  the  halter  hurt 
his  fingers,  stooped  down  and  wrenched  at  the  peg. 
While  he  was  thus  straining  and  tugging,  crimson 
in  the  face,  the  old  horse  stood  still,  gazing  at  him 
out  of  his  bleary  eyes.  Mr.  Barter  sprang  upright  with 
a  jerk,  the  peg  in  his  hand,  and  the  old  horse  started 
back. 

"So  ho,  boy!"  said  the  Rector,  and  angrily  he 
muttered:  "A  shame  to  tie  the  poor  beast  up  here 
in  the  sun.  I  should  like  to  give  his  owner  a  bit  of 
my  mindl'* 


2o6  The  Country  House 

He  led  the  animal  towards  the  water.  The  old 
horse  followed  tranquilly  enough,  but  as  he  had  done 
nothing  to  deserve  his  misfortune,  neither  did  he 
feel  any  gratitude  towards  his  deliverer.  He  drank 
his  fill,  and  fell  to  grazing.  The  Rector  experienced 
a  sense  of  disillusionment,  and  drove  the  peg  again 
into  the  softer  earth  under  the  willows,  then  raising 
himself,  he  looked  hard  at  the  old  horse. 

The  animal  continued  to  graze.  The  Rector  took 
out  his  handkerchief,  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
his  brow,  and  frowned.  He  hated  ingratitude  in 
man  or  beast. 

Suddenly  he  realised  that  he  was  very  tired. 

"It  must  be  over  by  now, "  he  said  to  himself,  and 
hastened  on  in  the  heat  across  the  fields. 

The  Rectory  door  was  open.  Passing  into  the 
study,  he  sat  down  a  moment  to  collect  his  thoughts. 
People  were  moving  above;  he  heard  a  long  moaning 
sound  that  filled  his  heart  with  terror. 

He  got  up  and  rushed  to  the  bell,  but  did  not  ring 
it,  and  ran  up-stairs  instead.  Outside  his  wife's  room 
he  met  his  children's  old  nurse.  She  was  standing 
on  the  mat,  with  her  hands  to  her  ears,  and  the  tears 
were  rolling  down  her  face. 

"Oh,  sir!"  she  said— "oh,  sir!" 

The  Rector  glared. 

"Woman!"  he  cried — "woman!" 

He  covered  his  ears  and  rushed  down-stairs  again. 

There  was  a  lady  in  the  hall.  It  was  Mrs.  Pendyce, 
and  he  ran  to  her,  as  a  hurt  child  runs  to  its  mother. 

"My  wife,"  he  said — "my  poor  wife!  God  knows 
what  they  're  doing  to  her  up  there,  Mrs.  Pendyce!" 
and  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

She,  who  had  been  a  Totteridge,  stood  motionless: 


Mr.  Barter  Takes  a  Walk       ^207 

then,  very  gently  putting  her  gloved  hand  on  his  thick 
arm,  where  the  muscles  stood  out  from  the  clenching 
of  his  hands,  she  said : 

**Dear  Mr.  Barter,  Dr.  Wilson  is  so  clever!  Come 
into  the  drawing-room!" 

The  Rector,  stumbling  like  a  blind  man,  suffered 
himself  to  be  led.  He  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  and 
Mrs.  Pendyce  sat  down  beside  him,  her  hand  still  on 
his  arm ;  over  her  face  passed  little  quivers,  as  though 
she  were  holding  herself  in.  She  repeated  in  her 
gentle  voice: 

"It  will  be  all  right — it  will  be  all  right.  Come, 
come!" 

In  her  concern  and  sympathy  there  w^as  apparent, 
not  aloofness,  but  a  faint  surprise  that  she  should  be 
sitting  there  stroking  the  Rector's  arm. 

Mr.  Barter  took  his  hands  from  before  his  face. 

"If  she  dies,"  he  said  in  a  voice  unlike  his  own, 
"I  11  not  bear  it." 

In  answer  to  those  words,  forced  from  him  by  that 
which  is  deeper  than  habit,  Mrs.  Pendyce's  hand 
slipped  from  his  arm  and  rested  on  the  shiny  chintz 
covering  of  the  sofa,  patterned  with  green  and  crim- 
son.    Her  soul  shrank  from  the  violence  in  his  voice. 

"Wait  here,  "  she  said.     "  I  will  go  up  and  see.  " 

To  command  was  foreign  to  her  nature,  but  Mr. 
Barter,  with  a  look  such  as  a  little  rueful  boy  might 
give,  obeyed. 

When  she  was  gone  he  stood  listening  at  the  door 
for  some  sound — for  any  sound,  even  the  sound  of  her 
dress — ^but  there  was  none,  for  her  petticoat  was  of 
lawn,  and  the  Rector  was  alone  with  a  silence  that 
he  could  not  bear.  He  began  to  pace  the  room  in 
his  thick  boots,  his  hands  clenched  behind  him,  his 


2o8  The  Country  House 

forehead  butting  the  air,  his  lips  folded;  thus  a  bull, 
penned  for  the  first  time,  turns  and  turns,  showing 
the  whites  of  its  full  eyes. 

His  thoughts  drove  here  and  there,  fearful,  angered, 
without  guidance;  he  did  not  pray.  The  words  he 
had  spoken  so  many  times  left  him  as  though  of 
malice.  "  We  are  all  in  the  hands  of  God ! — ^we  are  all 
in  the  hands  of  God!"  Instead  of  them  he  could 
think  of  nothing  but  the  old  saying  Mr.  Paramor  had 
used  in  the  Squire's  dining-room:  "There  is  modera- 
tion in  all  things,"  and  this  with  cruel  irony  kept 
humming  in  his  ears.  "Moderation  in  all  things — 
moderation  in  all  things!"  and  his  wife  lying  there — 
his  doing,  and 

There  was  a  sound.  The  Rector's  face,  so  brown 
and  red,  could  not  grow  pale,  but  his  great  fists 
relaxed.  Mrs.  Pendyce  was  standing  in  the  door- 
way with  a   peculiar  half-pitiful,  half-excited  smile. 

"It  's  all  right — a  boy.  The  poor  dear  has  had  a 
dreadful  time!" 

The  Rector  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  speak;  then 
abruptly  he  brushed  past  her  in  the  doorway,  hurried 
into  his  study  and  locked  the  door.  Then,  and  then 
only,  he  kneeled  down,  and  remained  there  many 
minutes,  thinking  of  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    SQUIRE    MAKES    UP    HIS    MIND 

THAT  same  evening  at  nine  o'clock,  sitting  over 
the  last  glass  of  a  pint  of  port,  Mr.  Barter 
felt  an  irresistible  longing  for  enjoyment,  an  im- 
pulse towards  expansion  and  his  fellow-men. 

Taking  his  hat  and  buttoning  his  coat — for  though 
the  June  evening  was  fine  the  easterly  breeze  was 
eager — ^he  walked  towards  the  village. 

Like  an  emblem  of  that  path  to  God  of  which  he 
spoke  on  Sundays,  the  grey  road  between  trim  hedges 
threaded  the  shadow  of  the  elm- trees  where  the  rooks 
had  long  since  gone  to  bed.  A  scent  of  wood-smoke 
clung  in  the  air;  the  cottages  appeared,  the  forge, 
the  little  shops  facing  the  village  green.  Lights  in 
the  doors  and  windows  deepened,  a  breeze,  which 
hardly  stirred  the  chestnut  leaves,  fled  with  a  gentle 
rustling  through  the  aspens.  Houses  and  trees, 
houses  and  trees!  Shelter  through  the  past  and 
through  the  days  to  come ! 

The  Rector  stopped  the  first  man  that  he  saw. 

"Fine  weather  for  the  hay,  Aiken!  How's  your 
wife  doing — a  girl?  Ah,  ha!  You  want  some  boys! 
You  heard  of  our  event  at  the  Rectory  ?  I'm  thank- 
ful to  say " 

From  man  to  man  and  house  to  house  he  soothed 
his  thirst  for  fellowship,  for  the  lost  sense  of  dignity 
that  should  efface  again  the  scar  of  suffering.  And 
above  him  the  chestnuts  in  their  breathing  stillness, 


2IO  The  Country  House 

the  aspens  with  their  tender  rustling,  seemed  to  watch 
and  whisper:  "Oh,  little  men!  oh,  little  men!" 

The  moon,  at  the  end  of  her  first  quarter,  rose  out 
of  the  shadow  of  the  churchyard — the  same  young 
moon  that  had  risen  in  her  silver  irony  when  the 
first  Barter  preached,  the  first  Pendyce  was  Squire 
of  Worsted  Skeynes;  the  same  young  moon  that,  se- 
rene, ineffable,  would  come  again  when  the  last 
Barter  slept,  the  last  Pendyce  was  gone,  and  on  their 
gravestones,  through  the  amethystine  air,  let  fall 
her  gentle  light. 

The  Rector  thought: 

"I   shall   set   Stedman  to  work   on   that   corner; 

V. -^  must  have  'more  room;  the  stones  there  are  a 

•  hundred  and  fifty  years  old  if  they  're  a  day.     You 

can't  read  a  single  word.     They  'd  better  be  the  first 

■to  go." 

He  passed  on  along  the  paddock  footway  leading 
to   the   Squire's. 

Day  was  gone,  and  only  the  moonbeams  lighted 
the  tall  grasses. 

At  the  Hall  the  long  French  windows  of  the  dining- 
room  were  open;  the  Squire  was  sitting  there  alone, 
brooding  sadly  above  the  remnants  of  the  fruit  he 
had  been  eating.  Flanking  him  on  either  wall  hung 
a  silent  company,  the  effigies  of  past  Pendyces;  and 
at  the  end,  above  the  odk  and  silver  of  the  sideboard, 
the  portrait  of  his  wife  was  looking  at  them  under 
lifted  brows,  with  her  faint  wonder. 

He  raised  his  head. 

"Ah,  Barter!     How  's  your  wife?" 

"Doing  as  well  as  can  be  expected." 

"Glad  to  hear  that!  A  fine  constitution — ^won- 
derful vitality.     Port  or  claret?" 


The  Squire  Makes  up  his  Mind   211 

"  Thanks;  just  a  glass  of  port.  " 

'*Very  trying  for  your  nerves.  I  know  what  it  is 
We'  re  different  from  the  last  generation ;  they  thought 
nothing  of  it.  When  Charles  was  born  my  dear  old 
father  was  out  hunting  all  day.  When  my  wife  had 
George,  it  made  me  as  nervous  as  a  cat!"  i 

The  Squire  stopped,  then  hurriedly  added: 

"But  you  're  so  used  to  it." 

Mr.  Barter  frowned. 

**I  was  passing  Coldingham  to-day,"  he  said.  *'I 
saw  Winlow.     He  asked  after  you. " 

"Ah!  Winlow!  His  wife  's  a  very  nice  woman. 
They  've  only  the  one  child,  I  think?" 

The  Rector  winced. 

"Winlow  tells  me, "  he  said  abruptly,  "that  George 
has  sold  his  horse. " 

The  Squire's  face  changed.  He  glanced  sus- 
piciously at  Mr.  Barter,  but  the  Rector  was  looking 
at  his  glass. 

"Sold  his  horse!  What  's  the  meaning  of  that? 
He  told  you  why,  I  suppose?"  M& 

The  Rector  drank  off  his  wine. 

"I  never  ask  for  reasons,"  he  said,  "where  racing 
men  are  concerned.  It  's  my  belief  they  know  no 
more  what  they  're  about  than  so  many  dumb 
animals. " 

"Ah!  racing  men!"  said  Mr.  Pendyce.  "But 
George  doesn't  bet." 

A  gleam  of  humour  shot  into  the  Rector's  eyes. 
He  pressed  his  Hps  together. 

The  Squire  rose. 

"Come  now,  Barter!"  he  said. 

The  Rector  blushed.  He  hated  tale-bearing — 
that  is,  of  course,  in  the  case  of  a  man;  the  case  of  *a 


\ 


212  The  Country  House 

woman  was  different — and  just  as,  when  he  went  to 
Bellew  he  had  been  careful  not  to  give  George  away, 
so  now  he  was  still  more  on  his  guard. 

"No,  no,  Pendyce. " 

The  Squire  began  to  pace  the  room,  and  Mr.  Barter 
felt  something  stir  against  his  foot ;  the  spaniel  John 
emerging  at  the  end,  just  where  the  moonlight  shone, 
a  symbol  of  all  that  was  subservient  to  the  Squire, 
gazed  up  at  his  master  with  tragic  eyes.  "Here, 
again,"  they  seemed  to  say,  "is  something  to  disturb 
me!" 

The  Squire  broke  the  silence. 

"I  've  always  counted  on  you,  Barter;  I  count  on 
you  as  I  would  on  my  own  brother.  Come,  now, 
what  's  this  about  George?" 

"After  all,"  thought  the  Rector,  "it  *s  his  father! 
I  know  nothing  but  what  they  say, "  he  blurted 
forth;  "they  talk  of  his  having  lost  a  lot  of  money. 
I  dare  say  it  's  all  nonsense.  I  never  set  much  store 
by  rumour.  And  if  he  's  sold  the  horse,  well,  so  much 
the  better.     He  won't  be  tempted  to  gamble  again. " 

But  Horace  Pendyce  made  no  answer.  A  single 
thought  possessed  his  bewildered,  angry  mind: 

"My  son  a  gambler!  Worsted  Skeynes  in  the 
hands  of  a  gambler!" 

The  Rector  rose. 

"It  's  all  rumour.  You  shouldn't  pay  any  at- 
tention. I  should  hardly  think  he  *s  been  such  a 
fool.  I  only  know  that  I  must  get  back  to  my  wife. 
Good-night. " 

And,  nodding  but  confused,  Mr.  Barter  went  away 
through  the  French  window  by  which  he    had  come 

The  Squire  stood  motionless. 

A  gambler! 


The  Squire  Makes  up  his  Mind   2 1 3 

To  him,  "whose  existence  was  bound  up  in  Worsted 
Skeynes,  whose  every  thought  had  some  direct  or 
indirect  connection  with  it,  whose  son  was  but  the 
occupier  of  that  place  he  must  at  last  vacate,  whose 
religion  was  ancestor- worship,  whose  dread  was 
change,  no  word  could  be  so  terrible.     A  gambler! 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  his  system  was  in  any 
way  responsible  for  George's  conduct.  He  had  said 
to  Mr.  Paramor:  "I  never  had  a  system;  I  'm  no  be- 
liever in  systems."  He  had  brought  him  up  simply 
as  a  gentleman.  He  would  have  preferred  that 
George  should  go  into  the  Army,  but  George  had 
failed;  he  would  have  preferred  that  George  should 
devote  himself  to  the  estate,  marry,  and  have  a  son 
instead  of  idling  away  his  time  in  town,  but  George 
had  failed;  and  so,  beyond  furthering  his  desire  to 
join  the  Yeomanry,  and  getting  him  proposed  for  the 
Stoics*  Club,  what  was  there  he  could  have  done 
to  keep  him  out  of  mischief?  And  now  he  was  a 
gambler ! 

Once  a  gambler  always  a  gambler! 

To  his  wife's  face,  looking  down  from  the  wall,  he 
said: 

"He  gets  it  from  you!" 

But  for  all  answer,  the  face  stared  gently. 

Turning  abruptly,  he  left  the  room,  and  the  spaniel 
John,  for  whom  he  had  been  too  quick,  stood  with 
his  nose  to  the  shut  door,  scenting  for  some  one  to 
come  and  open  it. 

Mr.  Pendyce  went  to  his  study,  took  some  papers 
from  a  locked  drawer,  and  sat  a  long  time  looking  at 
them.  One  was  the  draft  of  his  will,  another  a  list 
of  the  holdings  at  Worsted  Skeynes,  their  acreage 
and  rents,  a  third  a  draft  of  the  lease  and  release, 


214  The  Country  House 

re-entailing  the  estate  when  George  had  come  of 
age.  It  was  at  this  piece  of  supreme  irony  that  Mr. 
Pendyce  looked  longest.  He  did  not  read  it,  but 
he  thought: 

"And  I  can't  cut  it!  Paramor  says  so!  A  gam- 
bler!" 

That  "crassness, "  common  to  all  men  in  this 
strange  world,  and  in  the  Squire  intensified,  was 
rather  a  process  than  a  quality — obedience  to  an 
instinctive  dread  of  what  was  foreign  to  himself, 
an  instinctive  fear  of  seeing  another's  point  of  view, 
an  instinctive  belief  in  precedent.  And  it  was  closely 
allied  to  his  deepest  and  most  moral  quality — ^the 
power  of  making  a  decision.  Those  decisions  might  be 
"crass"  and  stupid,  conduce  to  unnecessary  suffering^ 
have  no  relation  to  morality  or  reason;  but  he  could 
make  them,  and  he  could  stick  to  them.  By  virtue 
of  this  power  he  was  where  he  was,  had  been  for 
centuries,  and  hoped  to  be  for  centuries  to  come. 
It  was  in  his  blood.  By  this  alone  he  kept  at  bay 
the  destroying  forces  that  Time  brought  against  him, 
his  order,  his  inheritance;  by  this  alone  he  could  con- 
tinue to  hand  down  that  inheritance  to  his  son.  And 
at  the  document  which  did  hand  it  down  he  looked 
with  angry  and  resentful  eyes. 

Men  who  conceive  great  resolutions  do  not  always 
bring  them  forth  with  the  ease  and  silence  that  they 
themselves  desire.  Mr.  Pendyce  went  to  his  bed- 
room determined  to  say  no  word  of  what  he  had  re- 
solved to  do.  His  wife  was  asleep.  The  Squire's 
entrance  wakened  her,  but  she  remained  motionless, 
with  her  eyes  closed,  and  it  was  the  sight  of  that 
immobility,  when  he  himself  was  so  disturbed,  that 
drew  from  him  the  words: 


The  Squire  Makes  up  his  Mind    215 

"Did  you  know  that  George  was  a  gambler?" 

By  the  light  of  the  candle  in  his  silver  candlestick 
her  dark  eyes  seemed  suddenly  alive. 

"He  's  been  betting;  he  's  sold  his  horse.  He  'd 
never  have  sold  that  horse  unless  he  were  pushed. 
For  all  I  know  he  may  be  posted  at  Tattersall's ! " 

The  sheets  shivered  as  though  she  who  lay  within 
thetn  were  struggling.  Then  came  her  voice,  cool  and 
gentle : 

"All  young  men  bet,  Horace ;  you  must  know  that  !'* 

The  Squire  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  held  up  the  candle; 
the  movement  had  a  sinister  significance. 

"Do  you  defend  him? "  it  seemed  to  say.  "Do  you 
defy  me?" 

Gripping  the  bed-rail,  he  cried: 

"I'  11  have  no  gambler  and  profligate  for  my  son! 
I  '11  not  risk  the  estate!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  raised  herself,  and  for  many  seconds 
stared  at  her  husband.  Her  heart  beat  furiously. 
It  had  come!  What  she  had  been  expecting  all 
these  days  had  come!     Her  pale  lips  answered: 

"What  do  you  mean?  I  don't  understand  you, 
Horace." 

Mr.  Pendyce's  eyes  searched  here  and  there,  for 
what — ^he  did  not  know. 

"This  has  decided  me,"  he  said.  "I  '11  have  no 
half- measures.  Until  he  can  show  me  he  's  done  with 
that  woman,  until  he  can  prove  he  's  given  up  this 
betting,  until — ^until  the  heaven  's  fallen,  I  '11  have 
no  more  to  do  with  him!" 

To  Margery  Pendyce,  with  all  her  senses  quivering, 
that  saying,  "Until  the  heaven's  fallen,"  was  fright- 
ening beyond  the  rest.  On  the  lips  of  her  husband, 
those    lips   that    had    never    spoken    in   metaphors, 


:2i6  The  Country  House 

never  swerved  from  the  direct  and  commonplace,  noi 
deserted  the  shibboleth  of  his  order,  such  words  had 
an  evil  and  malignant  sound. 

He  went  on: 

"I  've  brought  him  up  as  I  was  brought  up  myself. 
I  never  thought  to  have  had  a  scamp  for  my  son!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce's  heart  stopped  fluttering. 

"How  dare  you,  Horace?"  she  cried. 

The  Squire,  letting  go  the  bed-rail,  paced  to  and 
fro.  There  was  something  savage  in  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  through  the  utter  silence. 

"I  *ve  made  up  my  mind,"  he  said.  "The  es- 
tate  " 

There  broke  from  Mrs.  Pendyce  a  torrent  of  words : 

"You  talk  of  the  way  you  brought  George  up! 
You— you  never  understood  him !  You — ^you  never 
did  anything  for  him!     He  just  grew  up  like  you  all 

grow  up  in  this "     But  no  word  followed,  for  she 

did  not  know  herself  what  was  that  against  which 
her  soul  had  blindly  fluttered  its  wings.  "  You  never 
loved  him  as  I  do!  What  do  I  care  about  the  estate? 
I  wish  it  were  sold!  D'  you  think  I  like  living  here? 
D'  you  think  I  've  ever  liked  it?     D'  you  think  I  've 

ever "     But    she    did    not    finish    that    saying: 

D'  you  think  I  *ve  ever  loved  you?  "My  boy  a 
scamp !  I  've  heard  you  laugh  and  shake  your  head 
and  say  a  hundred  times:  'Young  men  will  be 
young  men!'  You  think  I  don't  know  how  you  'd 
all  go  on  if  you  dared!  You  think  I  don't  know  how 
you  talk  among  yourselves!  As  for  gambling,  you'd 
gamble  too,  if  you  were  n't  afraid!     And  now  George 

is  in  trouble " 

As  suddenly  as  it  had  broken  forth,  the  torrent  of 
her  words  dried  up. 


The  Squire  Makes  up  his  Mind    217 

Mr.  Pendyce  had  come  back  to  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
and  once  more  gripped  the  rail  whereon  the  candle, 
still  and  bright,  showed  them  each  other's  faces,  very 
changed  from  the  faces  that  they  knew.  In  the 
Squire's  lean  brown  throat,  between  the  parted 
points  of  his  stiff  collar,  a  string  seemed  working. 
He  stammered: 

"You — ^you  're  talking  like  a  madwoman!  My 
father  would  have  cut  me  off,  his  father  would  have 
cut  him  off!  By  God!  do  you  think  I  '11  stand  quietly 
by  and  see  it  all  played  ducks  and  drakes  with,  and 
see  that  woman  here,  and  see  her  son,  a — a  bastard, 
or  as  bad  as  a  bastard  in  my  place?  You  don't 
know  me!" 

The  last  words  came  through  his  teeth  like  the 
growl  of  a  dog.  Mrs.  Pendyce  made  the  crouching 
movement  of  one  who  gathers  herself  to  spring. 

"If  you  give  him  up  I  shall  go  to  him;  I  will  never 
come  back!" 

The  Squire's  grip  on  the  rail  relaxed;  in  the  light 
of  the  candle,  still  and  steady  and  bright,  his  jaw 
could  be  seen  to  fall.  He  snapped  his  teeth  together, 
and  turning  abruptly,  said : 

"Don't  talk  such  rubbish!" 

Then,  taking  the  candle,  he  went  into  his  dressing- 
room. 

And  at  first  his  feelings  were  simple  enough;  he 
had  merely  that  sore  sensation,  that  sense  of  raw 
offence,  as  at  some  gross  and  violent  breach  of  taste. 

"What  madness,"  he  thought,  "gets  into  women! 
It  would  serve  her  right  if  I  slept  here! " 

He  looked  around  him.  There  was  no  place  where 
he  could  sleep,  not  even  a  sofa,  and  taking  up  the 
candle,  he  moved  towards  the  door.     But  a  feeling 


2i8  The  Country  House 

of  hesitation  and  forlornness  rising,  he  knew  not 
whence,  made  him  pause  irresolute  before  the  window. 

The  young  moon,  riding  high,  shot  her  light  upon 
his  still,  lean  figure,  and  in  that  light  it  was  strange 
to  see  how  grey  he  looked — grey  from  head  to  foot, 
grey  and  sad  and  old,  as  though  in  summary  of  all 
the  Squires  who  in  turn  had  looked  upon  that  pro- 
spect frosted  with  young  moonlight  to  the  boundary 
of  their  lands.  Out  in  the  paddock  he  saw  his  old 
hunter  Bob,  with  his  head  turned  towards  the  house; 
and  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart  he  sighed. 

In  answer  to  that  sigh  came  a  sound  of  something 
falling  outside  against  the  door.  He  opened  it  to 
see  what  might  be  there.  The  spaniel  John,  lying 
on  a  cushion  of  blue  linen,  with  his  head  propped  up 
against  the  wall,  darkly  turned  his  eyes. 

"I  am  here  master,*'  he  seemed  to  say;  **  it  is 
late — ^I  was  about  to  go  to  sleep ;  it  has  done  me  good, 
however,  to  see  you,"  and  hiding  his  eyes  from  the 
light  under  a  long  black  ear,  he  drew  a  stertorous 
breath.  Mr.  Pendyce  shut-to  the  door.  He  had 
forgotten  the  existence  of  his  dog.  But,  as  though 
with  the  sight  of  that  faithful  creature,  he  had  regained 
belief  in  all  that  he  was  used  to,  in  all  that  he  was 
master  of,  in  all  that  was — ^himself,  he  opened  the 
bedroom  door  and  took  his  place  beside  his  wife. 

And  soon  he  was  asleep. 


PART   III 


CHAPTER  I 

MRS.    PENDYCE's    ODYSSEY 

BUT  Mrs.  Pendyce  did  not  sleep.  That  blessed 
anodyne  of  the  long  day  spent  in  his  farm- 
yards and  fields  was  on  her  husband's  eyes — ^no 
anodyne  on  hers;  and  through  them,  all  that  was 
deep,  most  hidden,  sacred,  was  laid  open  to  the  dark- 
ness. If  only  those  eyes  could  have  been  seen  that 
night!  But  if  the  darkness  had  been  light,  nothing 
of  all  this  so  deep  and  sacred  would  have  been  there 
to  see,  for  more  deep,  more  sacred  still,  in  Margery 
Pendyce,  was  the  instinct  of  a  lady.  So  elastic  and 
so  subtle,  so  interwoven  of  consideration  for  others 
and  consideration  for  herself,  so  old,  so  very  old, 
this  instinct  wrapped  her  from  all  eyes,  like  a  suit  of 
armour  oi  the  finest  chain.  The  night  must  have 
been  black,  indeed,  when  she  took  that  off  and  lay 
without  it  in  the  darkness. 

With  the  first  light  she  put  it  on  again,  and  stealing 
from  bed,  bathed  long  and  stealthily  those  eyes 
which  felt  as  though  they  had  been  burned  all  night; 
thence  went  to  the  open  window  and  leaned  out. 
Dawn  had  passed,  the  birds  were  at  morning  music. 
Down  there  in  the  garden  her  flowers  were  meshed 
with  the  grey  dew,  and  the  trees  were  grey,  spun  with 
haze;  dim  and  spectre-like,  the  old  hunter,  with  his 

319 


2  20  The  Country  House 

nose  on  the  paddock~rail,  dozed  in  the  summer  mist. 

And  all  that  had  been  to  her  like  prison  out  there, 
and  all  that  she  had  loved  stole  up  on  the  breath 
of  the  unaired  morning,  and  kept  beating  in  her  face, 
fluttering  at  the  white  linen  above  her  heart  like 
the  wings  of  birds  flying. 

The  first  morning  song  ceased,  and  at  the  silence 
the  sun  smiled  out  in  golden  irony,  and  everything 
was  shot  with  colour.  A  wan  glow  fell  on  Mrs. 
Pendyce's  spirit,  that  for  so  many  hours  had  been 
heavy  and  grey  in  lonely  resolution.  For  to  her 
gentle  soul,  unused  to  action,  shrinking  from  vio- 
lence, whose  strength  was  the  gift  of  the  ages,  passed 
into  it  against  her  very  nature,  the  resolution  she  had 
formed  was  full  of  pain.  Yet  painful,  even  terrible 
in  its  demand  for  action,  it  did  not  waver,  but  shone 
like  a  star  behind  the  dark  and  heavy  clouds.  In 
Margery  Pendyce  (who  had  been  a  Totteridge)  there 
was  no  irascible  and  acrid  "people's  blood,"  no  fierce 
misgivings,  no  ill-digested  beer  and  cider — it  was 
pure  claret  in  her  veins — she  had  nothing  thick  and 
angry  in  her  soul  to  help  her;  that  which  she  had  re- 
solved she  must  carry  out,  by  virtue  of  a  thin,  fine 
flame,  breathing  far  down  in  her — so  far  that  nothing 
could  extinguish  it,  so  far  that  it  had  little  warmth. 
It  was  not,  "I  will  not  be  over-ridden,"  that  her 
spirit  felt,  but  "I  must  not  be  over-ridden,  for  if  I 
am  over-ridden  I,  and  in  me  something  beyond  me, 
more  important  than  myself,  is  all  undone."  And 
though  she  was  far  from  knowing  this,  that  some- 
thing was  her  country's  civilisation,  its  very  soul, 
the  meaning  of  it  all — gentleness,  balance.  Her 
spirit,  of  that  quality  so  little  gross  that  it  would 
never  set  up  a  mean  or  petty  quarrel,  make  moimtains 


Mrs.  Pendyce's  Odyssey         221 

out  of  mole-hills,  distort  proportion,  or  get  images 
awry,  had  taken  its  stand  unconsciously,  no  sooner 
fchan  it  must,  no  later  than  it  ought,  and  from  that 
stand  would  not  recede.  The  issue  had  passed  beyond 
mother  love  to  that  self  love,  deepest  of  all,  which 
says:  "Do  this,  or  forfeit  the  essence  of  your  soul." 

And  now  that  she  stole  to  her  bed  again,  she  looked 
at  her  sleeping  husband  whom  she  had  resolved  to 
leave,  with  no  anger,  no  reproach,  but  rather  with  a 
long,  incurious  look  that  told  nothing  even  to  herself. 

So,  when  the  morning  came  of  age  and  it  was 
time  to  rise,  by  no  action,  look,  or  sign,  did  she  be- 
tray the  presence  of  the  unusual  in  her  soul.  If 
this  which  was  before  her  must  be  done,  it  would 
be  carried  out  as  though  it  were  of  no  import,  as 
though  it  were  a  daily  action;  nor  did  she  force  her- 
self to  quietude,  or  pride  herself  thereon,  but  acted 
thus  from  instinct,  the  instinct  for  avoiding  fuss 
and  unnecessary  suffering  that  was  bred  in  her. 

Mr.  Pendyce  went  out  at  half-past  ten  accom- 
panied by  his  bailiff  and  the  spaniel  John.  He  had 
not  the  least  notion  that  his  wife  still  meant  the  words 
she  had  spoken  over  night.  He  had  told  her  again 
while  dressing  that  he  would  have  no  more  to  do 
with  George,  that  he  would  cut  him  out  of  his  will, 
that  he  would  force  him  by  sheer  rigour  to  come  to 
heel,  that,  in  short,  he  meant  to  keep  his  word,  and 
it  would  have  been  unreasonable  in  him  to  believe 
that  a  woman,  still  less  his  wife,  meant  to  keep  hers. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  spent  the  early  part  of  the  morning 
in  the  usual  way.  Half  an  hour  after  the  Squire 
went  out  she  ordered  the  carriage  round,  had  two 
small  trunks,  which  she  had  packed  herself,  brought 
down,  and  leisurely,  with  her  little  green  bag,  got  Ixi. 


222  The  Country  House 

To  her  maid,  to  the  butler  Bester,  to  the  coachman 
Benson,  she  said  that  she  was  going  up  to  stay  with 
Mr.  George.  Norah  and  Bee  were  at  the  Tharps', 
so  that  there  was  no  one  to  take  leave  of  but  old  Roy, 
the  Skye,  and  lest  that  leave-taking  should  prove 
too  much  for  her,  she  took  him  with  her  to  the  station. 
For  her  husband  she  left  a  little  note,  placing  it 
where  she  knew  he  must  see  it  at  once,  and  no  one 
else  see  it  at  all. 

"Dear  Horace, 

**I  have  gone  up  to  London  to  be  with  George. 
My  address  will  be  Green's  Hotel,  Bond  Street.  You 
will  remember  what  I  said  last  night.  Perhaps  you 
did  not  quite  realise  that  I  meant  it.  Take  care  of 
poor  old  Roy,  and  don't  let  them  give  him  too  much 
meat  this  hot  weather.  Jackman  knows  better  than 
Ellis  how  to  manage  the  roses  this  year.  I  should 
like  to  be  told  how  poor  Rose  Barter  gets  on.  Please 
do  not  worry  about  me.  I  shall  write  to  dear  Gerald 
when  necessary,  but  I  don't  feel  like  writing  to  him 
or  the  girls  at  present. 

"Good-bye,  dear  Horace,  I  am  sorry  if  I  grieve  you. 
**  Your  wife, 

"Margery  Pendyce." 

Just  as  there  was  nothing  violent  in  her  manner 
of  taking  this  step,  so  there  was  nothing  violent  in 
her  conception  of  it.  To  her  it  was  not  running  away. 
a  setting  of  her  husband  at  defiance;  there  was  no 
concealment  of  address,  no  melodramatic  "I  cannot 
come  back  to  you."  Such  methods,  such  pistol- 
holdings,  would  have  seemed  to  her  ridiculous.  It 
is  true  that  practical  details,  such  as  the  financial 


Mrs.  Pendyce*s  Odyssey  223 

consequences,  escaped  the  grasp  of  her  mind,  but 
even  in  this,  her  view,  or  rather  lack  of  view,  was 
really  the  wide,  the  even  one.  Horace  would  not  let 
her  starve,  the  idea  was  inconceivable.  There  was, 
too,  her  own  three  hundred  a  year.  She  had,  indeed, 
no  idea  how  much  this  meant  or  what  it  represented, 
neither  was  she  concerned,  for  she  said  to  herself,  "I 
should  be  quite  happy  in  a  cottage  with  Roy  and  my 
flowers,"  and  though,  of  course,  she  had  not  the 
smallest  experience  to  go  by,  it  was  quite  possible 
that  she  was  right.  Things  which  to  others  came 
only  by  money,  to  a  Totteridge  came  without,  and 
even  if  they  came  not,  could  well  be  dispensed  with — 
for  to  this  quality  of  soul,  this  gentle  self-sufficiency, 
had  the  ages  worked  to  bring  her. 

Yet  it  was  hastily  and  with  her  head  bent  that  she 
stepped  from  the  carriage  at  the  station,  and  the  old 
Skye,  who,  from  the  brougham  seat,  could  just  see 
out  of  the  window,  from  the  tears  on  his  nose  that 
were  not  his  own,  from  something  in  his  heart  that 
was,  knew  this  was  no  common  parting  and  whined 
behind  the  glass. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  told  her  cabman  to  drive  to  Green's 
Hotel,  and  it  was  only  after  she  had  arrived,  arranged 
her  things,  washed,  and  had  lunch,  that  the  begin- 
nings of  confusion  and  home-sickness  stirred  within 
her.  Up  to  then  a  simmering  excitement  had  kept 
her  from  thinking  of  how  she  was  to  act,  or  of  what 
she  had  hoped,  expected,  dreamed,  would  come  of 
her  proceedings.  Taking  her  sunshade,  she  walked 
out  into  Bond  Street. 

A  passing  man  took  off  his  hat. 

** Dear  me,"  she  thought,  "who  was  that?  I  ought 
to  know!" 


224  The  Country  House 

She  had  a  rather  vague  memory  for  faces,  and 
though  she  could  not  recall  his  name,  felt  more  at 
home  at  once,  not  so  lonely  and  adrift.  Soon  a 
quaint  brightness  showed  in  her  eyes,  looking  at  the 
toilettes  of  the  passers-by,  and  each  shop-front,  more 
engrossing  than  the  last.  Pleasure,  like  that  which 
touches  the  soul  of  a  young  girl  at  her  first  dance, 
the  souls  of  men  landing  on  strange  shores,  touched- 
Margery  Pendyce.  A  delicious  sense  of  entering  the 
unknown,  of  braving  the  unexpected,  and  of  the 
power  to  go  on  doing  this  delightfully  for  ever,  en- 
veloped her  with  the  gay  London  air  of  this  bright 
June  day.  She  passed  a  perfume  shop,  and  thought 
she  had  never  smelt  anything  so  nice.  And  next 
door  she  lingered  long  looking  at  some  lace;  and 
though  she  said  to  herself,  **  I  must  not  buy  anything; 
I  shall  want  all  my  money  for  poor  George,"  it  made 
no  differences  to  that  sensation  of  having  all  things 
to  her  hand. 

A  list  of  theatres,  concerts,  operas  confronted  her  in 
the  next  window,  together  with  the  effigies  of  promi- 
nent artistes.  She  looked  at  them  with  an  eagerness 
that  might  have  seemed  absurd  to  any  one  who  saw 
her  standing  there.  Was  there,  indeed,  all  this  going 
on  all  day  and  every  day,  to  be  seen  and  heard  for 
so  few  shillings?  Every  year,  reUgiously,  she  had 
visited  the  opera  once,  the  theatre  twice,  and  no 
concerts;  her  husband  did  not  care  for  music  that 
was  "classical."  While  she  was  standing  there  a 
woman  begged  of  her,  looking  very  tired  and  hot,  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms,  so  shrivelled  and  so  small  that 
it  could  hardly  be  seen.  Mrs.  Pendyce  took  out  her 
purse  and  gave  her  half  a  crown,  and  as  she  did  so 
felt  a  gush  of  feeling  that  was  almost  rage. 


Mrs.  Pendyce's  Odyssey         225 

"  Poor  little  baby ! "  she  thought.  '*  There  must  be 
thousands  like  that,  and  I  know  nothing  of  them!" 

She  smiled  to  the  woman,  who  smiled  back  at  her; 
and  a  fat  Jewish  youth  in  a  shop  doorway,  seeing 
them  smile,  smiled  too,  as  though  he  found  them 
charming.  Mrs.  Pendyce  had  a  feeling  that  the  town 
was  saying  pretty  things  to  her,  and  this  was  so 
strange  and  pleasant  that  she  could  hardly  believe 
it,  for  Worsted  Skeynes  had  omitted  to  say  that  soit 
of  thing  to  her  for  over  thirty  years.  She  looked  in 
the  window  of  a  hat  shop,  and  found  pleasure  in 
the  sight  of  herself.  The  window  was  kind  to  her 
grey  linen  with  black  velvet  knots  and  guipure, 
though  it  was  two  years  old;  but,  then,  she  had  only 
been  able  to  wear  it  once  last  summer,  owing  to 
poor  Hubert's  death.  The  window  was  kind,  too,  to 
her  cheeks,  and  eyes,  which  had  that  touching  bright- 
ness, and  to  the  silver-powdered  darkness  of  her 
hair.  And  she  thought:  "I  don't  look  so  very  old!'* 
But  her  own  hat  reflected  in  the  hat-shop  window 
displeased  her  now;  it  turned  down  all  round,  and 
though  she  loved  that  shape,  she  was  afraid  it  was  not 
fashionable  this  year.  And  she  looked  long  in  the 
window  of  that  shop,  trying  to  persuade  herself  that 
the  hats  in  there  would  suit  her,  and  that  she  liked 
what  she  did  not  like.  In  other  shop  windows  she 
looked,  too.  It  was  a  year  since  she  had  seen  any, 
and  for  thirty-four  years  past  she  had  only  seen  them 
in  company  with  the  Squire  or  with  her  daughters, 
none  of  whom  cared  much  for  shops. 

The  people,  too,  were  different  from  the  people  that 
she  saw  when  she  went  about  with  Horace  or  her 
girls.     Almost  all  seemed  charming,  having  a  new 
strange  life,  in  which  she — Margery  Pendyce — had 


2  26  The  Country  House 

unaccountably  a  little  part;  as  though  really  she 
might  come  to  know  them,  as  though  they  might 
tell  her  something  of  themselves,  of  what  they  felt 
and  thought,  and  even  might  stand  listening,,  taking 
a  kindly  interest  in  what  she  said.  This,  too,  was 
strange,  and  a  friendly  smile  became  fixed  upon  her 
face,  and  of  those  who  saw  it — shop-girls,  women 
of  fashion,  coachmen,  clubmen,  policemen — most 
felt  a  little  warmth  about  their  hearts ;  it  was  pleasant 
to  see  on  the  lips  of  that  faded  lady  with  the  silvered 
arching  hair  under  a  hat  whose  brim  turned  down  all 
round. 

So  Mrs.  Pendyce  came  to  Piccadilly  and  turned 
westward  toward 's  George's  club.  She  knew  it  well, 
for  she  never  failed  to  look  at  the  windows  when 
she  passed,  and  once — on  the  occasion  of  Queen 
Victoria's  Jubilee,  had  spent  a  whole  day  there  to  see 
that  royal  show. 

She  began  to  tremble  as  she  neared  it,  for  though 
she  did  not,  like  the  Squire,  torture  her  mind  with 
what  might  or  might  not  come  to  pass,  care  had 
nested  in  her  heart. 

George  was  not  in  his  club,  and  the  porter  could  not 
tell  her  where  he  was.  Mrs.  Pendyce  stood  motionless. 
He  was  her  son;  how  could  she  ask  for  his  address? 
The  porter  waited,  knowing  a  lady  when  he  saw  one. 
Mrs.  Pendyce  said  gently: 

'*Is  there  a  room  where  I  could  write  a  note,  or 
would  it  be " 

**  Certainly  not,  ma'am.  I  can  show  you  to  a  room 
at  once." 

And  though  it  was  only  a  mother  to  a  son,  the 
porter  preceded  her  with  the  quiet  discretion  of  one 
who  aids  a  mistress  to  her  lover;  and  perhaps  he  was 


Mrs.  Pendyce's  Odyssey         227 

right  in  his  view  of  the  relative  values  of  love,  for 
he  had  great  experience,  having  lived  long  in  the 
best  society. 

On  paper  headed  with  the  fat  white  "Stoics'  Club, " 
so  well  known  on  George's  letters,  Mrs.  Pendyce 
wrote  what  she  had  to  say.  The  little  dark  room 
where  she  sat  was  without  sound,  save  for  the  buzzing 
of  a  largish  fly  in  a  streak  of  sunlight  below  the  blind. 
It  was  dingy  in  colour;  its  furniture  was  old.  At 
the  Stoics'  was  found  neither  the  new  art  nor  the 
resplendent  drapings  of  those  larger  clubs  sacred  to 
the  middle  classes.  The  little  writing- room  had  an 
air  of  mourning:  "I  am  so  seldom  used;  but  be  at 
home  in  me ;  you  might  find  me  tucked  away  in  almost 
any  country-house!" 

Yet  many  a  solitary  Stoic  had  sat  there  and  written 
many  a  note  to  many  a  woman.  George,  perhaps, 
had  written  to  Helen  Bellew  at  that  very  table  with 
that  very  pen,  and  Mrs.  Pendyce's  heart  ached 
jealously. 

"Dearest  George,"  she  wrote, 

"I  have  something  very  particular  to  tell 
you.  Do  come  to  me  at  Green's  Hotel.  Come  soon, 
my  dear.     I  shall  be  lonely  and  unhappy  till  I  see  you. 

"Your  loving 

"Margery  Pendyce." 

And  this  note,  which  was  just  what  she  would  hav^ 
sent  to  a  lover,  took  that  form,  perhaps  unconsciously, 
because  she  had  never  had  a  lover  thus  to  write  to. 

She  slipped  the  note  and  half  a  crown  diffidently 
into  the  porter's  hand ;  refused  his  offer  of  some  tea, 
and  walked  vaguely  towards  the  park. 


228  The  Country  House 

It  was  five  o'clock;  the  sun  was  brighter  than  ever. 
People  in  carriages  and  people  on  foot  in  one  leisurely, 
unending  stream  were  filing  in  at  Hyde  Park  Corner. 
Mrs.  Pendyce  went,  too,  and  timidly — ^she  was  un- 
used to  traffic — crossed  to  the  further  side  and  took 
a  chair.  Perhaps  George  was  in  the  park  and  she 
might  see  him;  perhaps  Helen  Bellew  was  there,  and 
she  might  see  her,  and  the  thought  of  this  made  her 
heart  beat  and  her  eyes  under  their  uplifted  brows 
stare  gently  at  each  figure — old  men  and  young  men, 
women  of  the  world,  fresh  young  girls.  How  charm- 
ing they  looked,  how  sweetly  they  were  dressed  I 
A  feeling  of  envy  mingled  with  the  joy  she  ever  felt 
at  seeing  pretty  things;  she  was  quite  unconscious 
that  she  herself  was  pretty  under  that  hat  whose 
brim  turned  down  all  round.  But  as  she  sat,  a  leaden 
feeling  slowly  closed  her  heart,  varied  by  nervous 
fiutterings,  when  she  saw  some  one  that  she  ought  to 
know.  And  whenever,  in  response  to  a  salute,  she 
was  forced  to  bow  her  head,  a  blush  rose  in  her  cheeks, 
a  wan  smile  seemed  to  make  confession: 

"I  know  I  look  like  a  guy;  I  know  it  's  odd  for  me 
to  be  sitting  here  alone!" 

She  felt  old — older  than  she  had  ever  felt  before. 
In  the  midst  of  this  gay  crowd,  of  all  this  life  and 
sunshine,  a  feeling  of  loneliness  that  was  almost 
fear — a.  feeling  of  being  utterly  adrift,  cut  off  from 
all  the  world — came  over  her:  and  she  felt  like  one 
of  her  own  plants,  plucked  up  from  its  native  earth, 
with  all  its  poor  roots  hanging  bare,  as  though  groping 
for  the  earth  to  cling  to.  She  knew  now  that  she 
had  lived  too  long  in  the  soil  that  she  had  hated ;  and 
was  too  old  to  be  transplanted.  The  custom  of  the 
country — ^that   weighty,    wingless   creature   born   of 


Mrs.  Pendyce's  Odyssey         229 

time  and  of  the  earth — ^had  its  limbs  fast  twined 
around  her.  It  had  made  of  her  its  mistress,  and 
was  not  going  to  let  her  go. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SON  AND  THE  MOTHER 

HARDER  than  for  a  camel  to  pass  through  the 
eye  of  a  needle  is  it  for  a  man  to  become  a 
member  of  the  Stoics'  Club,  except  by  virtue  of  the 
hereditary  principle;  for  unless  he  be  nourished  he 
cannot  be  elected,  and  since  by  the  club's  first  rule 
he  may  have  no  occupation  whatsoever,  he  must 
be  nourished  by  the  efforts  of  those  who  have  gone 
before.  And  the  longer  they  have  gone  before  the 
more  likely  he  is  to  receive  no  blackballs. 

Yet  without  entering  into  the  Stoics'  Club  it  is 
difficult  for  a  man  to  attain  that  supreme  outward 
control  which  is  necessary  to  conceal  his  lack  of 
control  within,  and,  indeed,  the  club  is  an  admirable 
instance  of  how  Nature  places  the  remedy  to  hand 
for  the  disease.  For,  perceiving  how  George  Pendyce 
and  hundreds  of  other  young  men  "to  the  manner 
born"  had  lived  from  their  birth  up  in  no  connection 
whatever  with  the  struggles  and  sufferings  of  life, 
and  fearing  lest,  when  life  in  her  careless  and  ironical 
fashion,  brought  them  into  abrupt  contact  with  ill- 
bred  events,  they  should  make  themselves  a  nuisance 
by  their  cries  of  dismay  and  wonder.  Nature  had 
devised  a  mask  and  shaped  it  to  its  highest  form 
within  the  portals  of  the  Stoics'  Club.  With  this 
mask  she  clothed  the  faces  of  these  young  men  whose 
souls  she  doubted,  and  called  them — gentlemen. 
And   when   she,    and   she   alone,    heard   their   poor 

230 


The  Son  and  the  Mother         231 

squeaks  behind  that  mask,  as  life  placed  clumsy  feet 
on  them,  she  pitied  them,  knowing  that  it  was  not 
they  who  were  in  fault,  but  the  unpruned  system 
which  had  made  them  what  they  were.  And  in  her 
pity  she  endowed  many  of  them  with  thick  skins, 
steady  feet,  and  complacent  souls,  so  that,  treading 
in  well-worn  paths  their  lives  long,  they  might  slum- 
ber to  their  deaths  in  those  halls  where  their  fathers 
had  slumbered  to  their  deaths  before  them.  But 
sometimes  Nature  (who  was  not  yet  a  Socialist) 
rustled  her  wings  and  heaved  a  sigh,  lest  the  excesses 
and  excrescences  of  the  system  should  bring  about 
excesses  and  excrescences  of  the  opposite  sort.  For 
extravagance  of  all  kinds  was  what  she  hated,  and 
of  that  particular  form  of  extravagance  which  Mr. 
Paramor  so  vulgarly  called  "  Pendycitis, "  she  had  a 
horror. 

It  may  happen  that  for  long  years  the  likeness 
between  father  and  son  will  lie  dormant,  and  only 
when  disintegrating  forces  threaten  the  links  of  the 
chain  binding  them  together,  will  that  likeness  leap 
forth,  and  by  a  piece  of  Nature's  irony  become  the 
main  factor  in  destroying  the  hereditary  principle 
for  which  it  is  the  silent,  the  most  worthy,  excuse. 

It  is  certain  that  neither  George  nor  his  father 
knew  the  depth  to  which  this  "Pendycitis"  was 
rooted  in  the  other;  neither  suspected,  not  even  in 
themselves,  the  amount  of  essential  bulldog  at  the 
bottom  of  their  souls,  the  strength  of  their  determina- 
tion to  hold  their  own  in  the  w^ay  that  w^ould  cause 
the  greatest  amount  of  unnecessary  suffering.  They 
did  not  deliberately  desire  to  cause  unnecessary 
suffering;  they  simply  could  not  help  an  instinct 
passed  by  time  into  their  fibre,  through  atrophy  of 


232  The  Country  House 

the  reasoning  powers,  and  the  constant  mating, 
generation  after  generation,  of  those  whose  motto 
had  been,  ''Kings  of  our  own  dunghills."  And  now 
George  came  forward,  defying  his  mother's  belief 
that  he  was  a  Totteridge,  as  champion  of  the  principle 
in  tail  male;  for  in  the  Totteridges,  from  whom  in 
this  stress  he  diverged  more  and  more  towards  his 
father's  line,  there  was  some  freer  strain,  something 
non- provincial,  and  this  had  been  so  ever  since 
Hubert  de  Toterydge  had  led  his  private  crusade, 
from  which  he  had  neglected  to  return.  With  the 
Pendyces  it  had  been  otherwise;  from  immemorial 
time  "a  county  family,"  they  had  construed  the 
phrase  literally,  had  taken  no  poetical  licences. 
Like  innumerable  other  county  families,  they  were 
perforce  what  their  tradition  decreed — ^provincial 
in  their  souls. 

George,  a  man-about-town,  would  have  stared  at 
being  called  provincial,  but  a  man  cannot  stare  away 
his  nature.  He  was  provincial  enough  to  keep  Mrs. 
Bellew  bound  when  she  herself  was  tired  of  him,  when 
consideration  for  her  and  every  one  else  demanded 
that  he  should  give  her  up.  He  had  been  keeping  her 
bound  for  two  months  or  more.  But  there  was  much 
excuse  for  him.  His  heart  was  sore  to  breaking- 
point;  he  was  sick  with  longing,  and  deep,  angry 
wonder  that  he,  of  all  men,  should  be  cast  aside  like 
a  worn-out  glove.  Men  tired  ot  women  daily — ^that 
was  the  law.  But  what  was  this?  His  dogged 
Instinct  had  fought  against  the  knowledge  as  long 
as  he  could,  and  now  that  it  was  certain  he  fought 
against  it  still.     George  was  a  true  Pendyce! 

To  the  world,  however,  he  behaved  as  usual.  He 
came  to  the  club  about  ten  o'clock  to  eat  his  breakfait 


The  Son  and  the  Mother  233 

and  read  the  sporting  papers.  Towards  noon  a 
hansom  took  him  to  the  railway- station  appropriate 
to  whatever  race-meeting  was  in  progress,  or,  failing 
that,  to  the  cricket-ground  at  Lord's,  or  Prince's 
Tennis  Club.  Half- past  six  saw  him  mounting  the 
staircase  at  the  Stoics'  to  that  card-room  where  his 
effigy  still  hung,  with  its  look  of  "Hard  work,  hard 
Work;  but  I  must  keep  it  going!"  At  eight  he  dined, 
a  bottle  of  champagne  screwed  deep  down  into  ice, 
his  face  flushed  with  the  day's  sun,  his  shirt-front 
and  his  hair  shining  with  gloss.  What  happier 
man  in  all  great  London! 

But  with  the  dark  the  club's  swing-doors  opened 
for  his  passage  into  the  lighted  streets,  and  till  next 
morning  the  world  knew  him  no  more.  It  w^as  then 
that  he  took  revenge  for  all  the  hours  he  wore  a 
mask.  He  would  walk  the  pavements  for  miles 
trying  to  wear  himself  out,  or  in  the  park  fling  him- 
self down  on  a  chair  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  trees, 
and  sit  there  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  head  bowed 
down.  On  other  nights  he  would  go  into  some  music- 
hall,  and  amongst  the  glaring  lights,  the  vulgar 
laughter,  the  scent  of  painted  women,  try  for  a  mo^ 
ment  to  forget  the  face,  the  laugh,  the  scent  of  that 
Woman  for  whom  he  craved.  And  all  the  time  he 
Was  jealous,  with  a  dumb,  vague  jealousy  of  he  knew 
not  whom ;  it  was  not  his  nature  to  think  impersonally, 
and  he  could  not  believe  that  a  woman  would  drop 
him  except  for  another  man.  Often  he  went  to  her 
Mansions,  and  walked  round  and  round  casting  a 
stealthy  stare  at  her  windows.  Twice  he  went  up 
to  her  door,  but  came  away  without  ringing  the 
bell.  One  evening,  seeing  a  light  in  her  sitting-room, 
he  rang,  but  there  came  no  answer.     Then  an  evil 


234  The  Country  House 

spirit  leaped  up  in  him,  and  he  rang  again  and  again. 
At  last  he  went  away  to  his  room — ^a  studio  he  had 
taken  near — and  began  to  write  to  her.  He  was 
long  composing  that  letter,  and  many  times  tore  it 
up;  he  despised  the  expression  of  feelings  in  writing. 
He  only  tried  because  his  heart  wanted  relief  so 
badly.     And  this,  in  the  end,  was  all  that  he  produced : 

*''I  know  you  were  in  to-night.  It  's  the  only  time 
I  Ve  come.  Why  couldn  't  you  have  let  me  in? 
You  've  no  right  to  treat  me  like  this.  You  are 
leading  me  the  life  of  a  dog. 

"George." 

The  first  light  was  silvering  the  gloom  above  the 
river,  the  lamps  were  paling  to  the  day,  when  George 
went  out  and  dropped  this  missive  in  the  letter-box- 
He  came  back  to  the  river  and  lay  down  on  an  empty 
bench  under  the  plane-trees  of  the  Embankment,  and 
while  he  lay  there  one  of  those  without  refuge  or 
home,  who  lie  there  night  after  night,  came  up  unseen 
and  looked  at  him. 

But  morning  comes,  and  with  it  that  sense  of  the 
ridiculous,  so  merciful  to  suffering  men.  George  got 
up  lest  any  one  should  see  a  Stoic  lying  there  in  his 
evening  clothes;  and  when  it  became  time  he  put  on 
his  mask  and  sallied  forth.  At  the  club  he  found 
his  mother's  note,  and  set  out  for  her  hotel. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  was  not  yet  down,  but  sent  to  ask 
him  to  come  up.  George  found  her  standing  in  her 
dressing-gown  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  as  though 
she  knew  not  where  to  place  herself  for  this,  their 
meeting.  Only  when  he  was  quite  close  did  she 
move  and  throw  her  arms  round  his  neck.     George 


The  Son  and  the  Mother  235 

could  not  see  her  face,  and  his  own  was  hidden  from 
her,  but  through  the  thin  dressing-gown  he  felt  her 
straining  to  him,  and  her  arms  that  had  pulled  his 
head  down  were  quivering;  and  for  a  moment  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  dropping  a  burden.  But 
only  for  a  moment,  for  at  the  clinging  of  those  arms 
his  instinct  took  fright.  And  though  she  was  smiling 
the  tears  were  in  her  eyes,  and  this  offended  him. 

•'Don't,  Mother!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce's  answer  was  a  long  look.  George 
could  not  bear  it,  and  turned  away. 

"Well,"  he  said  gruffly,  "when  you  can  tell  me 
what  's  brought  you  up " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  sat  down  on  the  sofa.  She  had  been 
brushing  her  hair;  though  silvered,  it  was  still  thick 
and  soft,  and  the  sight  of  it  about  her  shoulders 
struck  George.  He  had  never  thought  of  her  having 
hair  that  would  hang  down. 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  and  felt  her  fingers  stroking 
his  hand,  as  if  begging  him  not  to  take  offence  and 
leave  her.  He  felt  her  eyes  trying  to  see  his  eyes, 
and  saw  her  lips  trembling,  but  a  stubborn,  almost 
evil,  smile  was  fixed  upon  his  face. 

"And  so,  dear — and  so,"  she  stammered,  "I  told 
your  father  that  I  could  n't  see  that  done,  and  so  I 
came  up  to  you. " 

Many  sons  have  found  no  hardship  in  accepting 
all  that  their  mothers  do  for  them  as  a  matter  of 
right,  no  difficulty  in  assuming  their  devotion  a 
matter  of  course,  no  trouble  in  leaving  their  own 
affections  to  be  understood,  but  most  sons  have 
found  great  difficulty  in  permitting  their  mothers 
to  diverge  one  inch  from  the  conventional,  to  swerve 
one  hair's  breadth  from  the  standard  of  propriety 


236  The  Country  House 

appropriate  to  mothers  of  men  of  their  importance. 

It  is  decreed  of  mothers  that  their  birth  pangs  shall 
not  cease  until  they  die. 

And  George  was  shocked  to  hear  his  mother  say 
that  she  had  left  his  father  to  come  to  him.  It  af- 
fected his  self-esteem  in  a  strange  and  subtle  way. 
The  thought  that  tongues  might  wag  about  her  re- 
volted his  manhood  and  his  sense  of  form.  It  seemed 
strange,  incomprehensible,  and  wholly  wrong;  and 
the  thought  too  flashed  through  his  mind:  "She  is 
trying  to  put  pressure  on  me!" 

"If  you  think  I  '11  give  her  up,  Mother "  he 

said. 

Mrs.  Pendyce*s  fingers  tightened. 

"No,  dear,"  she  answered  painfully;  "of  course, 
if  she  loves  you  so  much,  I  could  n't  ask  you.  That's 
why  I " 

George  gave  a  grim  little  laugh. 

"What  on  earth  can  you  do,  then?  What's  the 
good  of  your  coming  up  like  this?  How  are  you  to 
get  on  here  all  alone?  I  can  fight  my  own  battles. 
You  'd  much  better  go  back." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  broke  in: 

"Oh,  George;  I  can't  see  you  cast  off  from  us!  I 
must  be  with  you!" 

George  felt  her  trembling  all  over.  He  got  up 
and  walked  to  the  window.  Mrs.  Pendyce's  voice 
followed : 

"I  won't  try  to  separate  you,  George;  I  promise, 
dear.  I  could  n't,  if  she  loves  you,  and  you  love  her 
so!" 

Again  George  laughed  that  grim  little  laugh.  And 
the  fact  that  he  was  deceiving  her,  meant  to  go  on 
deceiving  her,  made  him  as  hard  as  iron. 


The  Son  and  the  Mother         237 

"Go  back,  Mother!"  he  said.  "You  '11  only  make 
things  worse.  This  is  n't  a  woman's  business.  Let 
Father  do  what  he  likes ;  I  can  hold  on ! " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  did  not  answer,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  look  round.  She  was  sitting  perfectly  still  with 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  his  man's  hatred  of  any- 
thing conspicuous  happening  to  a  woman,  to  his  own 
mother  of  all  people,  took  fiercer  fire. 

"Go  back!"  he  repeated,  "before  there  *s  any  fuss! 
What  good  can  you  possibly  do?  You  can't  leave 
Father ;  that  's  absurd !     You  must  go ! " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  answered: 

"I  can't  do  that,  dear." 

George  made  an  angry  sound,  but  she  was  so 
motionless  and  pale  that  he  dimly  perceived  how 
she  was  suffering,  and  how  little  he  knew  of  her  who 
had  borne  him. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  broke  the  silence: 

"  But  you,  George  dear?  What  is  going  to  happen, 
how  are  you  going  to  manage?"  And  suddenly 
clasping  her  hands:  "Oh!  what  is  coming?" 

Those  words,  embodying  all  that  had  been  in  his 
heart  so  long,  were  too  much  for  George.  He  went 
abruptly  to  the  door. 

"I  can't  stop  now,"  he  said;  "I'll  come  again  this 
evening." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  up. 

"Oh,  George " 

But  as  she  had  the  habit  of  subordinating  her 
feelings  to  the  feelings  of  others,  she  said  no  more, 
but  tried  to  smile. 

That  smile  smote  George  to  the  heart. 

"  Don't  worry,  Mother ;  try  and  cheer  up.  We  '11 
go  to  the  theatre.     You  get  the  tickets!" 


238  The  Country  House 

And  trying  to  smile  too,  but  turning  lest  he  should 
lose  his  self-control,  he  went  away. 

In  the  hall  he  came  on  his  uncle,  General  Pendyce. 
He  came  on  him  from  behind,  but  knew  him  at  once 
by  that  look  of  feeble  activity  about  the  back  of 
his  knees,  by  his  sloping  yet  upright  shoulders,  and 
the  sound  of  his  voice,  with  its  dry  and  querulous 
precision,  as  of  a  man  whose  occupation  has  been 
taken  from  him. 

The  General  turned  round. 

**  Ah,  George,"  he  said,  "your  mother  's  here,  is  'nt 
she?     Look  at  this  that  your  father  's  sent  me!" 

He  held  out  a  telegram  in  a  shaky  hand. 

"Margery  up  at  Green's  Hotel.  Go  and  see  her 
at  once. — Horace." 

And  while  George  read,  the  General  looked  at  his 
nephew  with  eyes  that  were  ringed  by  little  circles 
of  darker  pigment,  and  had  crow's-footed  purses 
of  skin  beneath,  earned  by  serving  his  country  in 
tropical  climes. 

"  What  's  the  meaning  of  it  ? "  he  said.  **  Go  and  see 
her?  Of  course,  I  '11  go  and  see  her!  Always  glad  to 
s:e  your  mother.     But  where's  all  the  hurry?" 

George  perceived  well  enough  that  his  father's 
pride  would  not  let  him  write  to  her,  and  though  it 
was  for  himself  that  his  mother  had  taken  this  step, 
he  sympathised  with  his  father.  The  General  for- 
tunately gave  him  little  time  to  answer. 

"She  's  up  to  get  herself  some  dresses,  I  suppose? 
I  've  seen  nothing  of  you  for  a  long  time.  .  When  are 
you  coming  to  dine  with  me?  I  heard  at  Epsom  that 
you  'd  sold  your  horse.     What  made  you  do  that? 


The  Son  and  the  Mother  239 

What  *s  your  father  telegraphing  to  me  like  this  for? 
It  *s  not  like  him.     Your  mother  's  not  ill,  is  she?" 

George  shook  his  head,  and  muttering  something 
about  "Sorry,  an  engagement — awful  hurry,"  was 
gone. 

Left  thus  abruptly  to  himself,  General  Pendyce 
summoned  a  page,  slowly  pencilled  something  on  his 
card,  and  with  his  back  to  the  only  persons  in  the  hall, 
waited,  his  hands  folded  on  the  handle  of  his  cane. 
And  while  he  waited  he  tried  as  far  as  possible  to 
think  of  nothing.  Having  served  his  coun'ry,  his 
time  now  was  nearly  all  devo  ed  to  waiting,  and  to 
think  fatigued  him,  and  made  him  feel  discontented, 
for  he  had  had  sunstroke  once,  and  fever  several 
times.  In  the  perfect  precision  of  his  collar,  his 
boots,  his  dress,  his  figure;  in  the  way  from  time  to 
time  he  cleared  his  throat,  in  the  strange  yellow 
driedness  of  his  face  between  his  carefully  brushed 
whiskers,  in  the  immobility  of  his  white  hands  on 
his  cane,  he  gave  the  impression  of  a  man  sucked 
dry  by  a  system.  Only  his  eyes,  restless  and  opin- 
ionated, betrayed  the  essential  Pendyce  that  was 
behind. 

He  went  up  to  the  ladies'  drawing-room,  clutching 
that  telegram.  It  worried  him.  There  was  something 
odd  about  it,  and  he  was  not  accustomed  to  paying 
calls  in  the  morning.  He  found  his  sister-in-law 
seated  at  an  open  window,  her  face  unusually  pink, 
her  eyes  rather  defiantly  bright.  She  greeted  him 
gently,  and  General  Pendyce  was  not  the  man  to 
discern  what  was  not  put  under  his  nose.  Fortu- 
nately for  him,  that  had  never  been  his  prac- 
tice. 

"How  are  you,  Margery?"  he  said.     "Glad  to  see 


240  The  Country  House 

you  in  town.  How's  Horace?  Look  here,  what 
he  's  sent  me!"  He  offered  her  the  telegram,  with 
the  air  of  slightly  avenging  an  offence;  then  added 
in  surprise,  as  though  he  had  just  thought  of  it:  "Is 
there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  read  the  telegram,  and  she,  too,  like 
George,  felt  sorry  for  the  sender. 

"Nothing,  thanks,  dear  Charles,"  she  said  slowly. 
"I  'm  all  right.     Horace  gets  so  nervous!" 

General  Pendyce  looked  at  her,  for  a  moment  his 
eyes  flickered,  then,  since  the  truth  was  so  improbable 
and  so  utterly  in  any  case  beyond  his  philosophy,  he 
accepted  her  statement. 

"He  should  n't  go  sending  telegrams  like  this,"  he 
said.  "You  might  have  been  ill  for  all  I  could  tell. 
It  spoiled  my  breakfast!"  For  though,  as  a  fact,  it 
had  not  prevented  his  completing  a  hearty  meal,  he 
fancied  that  he  felt  hungry.  "  When  I  was  quartered 
at  Halifax  there  was  a  fellow  who  never  sent  any- 
thing but  telegrams.  Telegraph  Jo  they  called  him. 
He  commanded  the  old  Bluebottles?  You  know  the 
old  Bluebottles?  If  Horace  is  going  to  take  to  this 
sort  of  thing  he  'd  better  see  a  specialist ;  it 's  almost 
certain  to  mean  a  breakdown.  You  're  up  about 
dresses,  I  see.  When  do  you  come  to  town?  The 
season  's  getting  on." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  was  not  afraid  of  her  husband's 
brother,  for  though  punctilious  and  accustomed  to 
his  own  way  with  inferiors,  he  was  hardly  a  man  to 
inspire  awe  in  his  social  equals.  It  was,  therefore, 
not  through  fear  that  she  did  not  tell  him  the  truth, 
but  through  an  instinct  for  avoiding  all  unnecessary 
suffering  too  strong  for  her,  and  because  the  truth 
was  really  untellable.     Even   to   herself  it   seemed 


The  Son  and  the  Mother  241 

slightly  ridiculous,  and  she  knew  the  poor  General 
would  take  it  so  dreadfully  to  heart. 

"I  don't  know  about  coming  up  this  season.  The 
garden  is  looking  so  beautiful,  and  there  's  Bee's 
engagement.     The  dear  child  is  so  happy!" 

The  General  caressed  a  whisker  with  his  white 
hand. 

"Ah,  yes,**  he  said — "young  Tharp!  Let  *s  see, 
he  's  not  the  eldest.  His  brother  's  in  my  old  corps. 
What  does  this  young  fellow  do  with  himself?" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  answered: 

"  He  's  only  farming.  I  'm  afraid  he  '11  have  nothing 
to  speak  of,  but  he  's  a  dear  good  boy.  It'll  be  a  long 
engagement.  Of  course,  there  's  nothing  in  farming, 
and  Horace  insists  on  their  having  a  thousand  a  year. 
It  depends  so  much  on  Mr.  Tharp.  I  think  they 
could  do  perfectly  well  on  seven  hundred  to  start 
with,  don't  you,  Charles.?" 

General  Pendyce 's  answer  was  not  more  con- 
spicuously to  the  point  than  usual,  for  he  was  a  man 
who  loved  to  pursue  his  own  trains  of  thought. 

"What  about  George?"  he  said.  "I  met  him  in 
the  hall  as  I  was  coming  in,  but  he  ran  off  in  the  very 
deuce  of  a  hurry.  They  told  me  at  Epsom  that  he 
was  hard  hit." 

His  eyes,  distracted  by  a  fly  for  which  he  had  taken 
a  dislike,  failed  to  observe  his  sister-in-law's  face. 

"Hard  hit?"  she  repeated. 

"Lost  a  lot  of  money.  That  won't  do,  you  know, 
Margery — that  won't  do.  A  little  mild  gambling  *s 
one  thing.'* 

Mrs.  Pendyce  said  nothing;  her  face  was  rigid.  It 
was  the  face  of  a  woman  on  the  point  of  saying:  "Do 
not  compel  me  to  hint  that  you  are  boring  mel" 


242  The  Country  House 

The  General  went  on: 

"A  lot  of  new  men  have  taken  to  racing  that  no 
one  knows  anything  about.  That  fellow  who  bought 
George's  horse,  for  instance;  you  'd  never  have  seen 
his  nose  in  Tattersall's  when  I  was  a  young  man.  I 
find  when  I  go  racing  I  don't  know  half  the  colours. 
It  spoils  the  pleasure.  It  's  no  longer  the  close 
borough  that  it  was.  George  had  better  take  care 
what  he  's  about  I  can't  imagine  what  we  Ve  coming 
to!" 

On  Margery  Pendyce  *s  hearing,  those  words,  "I 
can't  imagine  what  we  're  coming  to,"  had  fallen  for 
four-and-thirty  years,  in  every  sort  of  connection, 
from  many  persons.  It  had  become  part  of  her 
life,  indeed,  to  take  it  for  granted  that  people  could 
imagine  nothing;  just  as  the  solid  food  and  solid 
comfort  of  Worsted  Skeynes  and  the  misty  mornings 
and  the  rain  had  become  part  of  her  life.  And  it 
was  only  the  fact  that  her  nerves  were  on  edge  and 
her  heart  bursting  that  made  those  words  seem  in- 
tolerable that  morning;  but  habit  was  even  now  too 
strong,  and  she  kept  silence. 

The  General,  to  whom  an  answer  was  of  no  great 
moment,  pursued  his  thoughts. 

"And  you  mark  my  words,  Margery;  the  elections 
will  go  against  us.  The  country  *s  in  a  dangerous 
state. " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  said: 

**0h,  do  you  think  the  Liberals  will  really  get  in?" 

From  custom  there  was  a  shade  of  anxiety  in  her 
voice  which  she  did  not  feel. 

"Think?*'  repeated  General  Pendyce.  "I  pray 
every  night  to  God  they  won't!" 

Folding   both   hands    on   the   silver  knob   of  his 


The  Son  and  the  Mother  H3 

Malacca  cane,  he  stared  over  them  at  the  opposing 
wall ;  and  there  was  something  universal  in  that  fixed 
stare,  a  sort  of  blank  and  not  quite  selfish  appre- 
hension. Behind  his  personal  interests  his  ancestors 
had  drilled  into  him  the  impossibility  of  imagining 
that  he  did  not  stand  for  the  welfare  of  his  country. 
Mrs.  Pendyce,  who  had  so  often  seen  her  husband 
look  like  that,  leaned  out  of  the  window  above  the 
noisy  street. 

The  General  rose. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  I  can't  do  anything  for  you, 
Margery,  I  '11  take  myself  off;  you  're  busy  with  your 
dressmakers.  Give  my  love  to  Horace,  and  tell  him 
not  to  send  me  another  telegram  like  that. " 

And  bending  stiffly,  he  pressed  her  hand  with  a 
touch  of  real  courtesy  and  kindness,  took  up  his 
hat,  and  went  away.  Mrs.  Pendyce,  watching  him 
descend  the  stairs,  watching  his  stiff  sloping  shoulders, 
his  head  with  its  grey  hair  brushed  carefully  away 
from  the  centre  parting,  the  backs  of  his  feeble,  active 
knees,  put  her  hand  to  her  breast  and  sighed,  for' 
with  him  she  seemed  to  see  descending  all  her  past 
life,  and  that  one  cannot  see  unmoved. 


CHAPTER  III 

MRS.  BELLBW  SQUARES  HER  ACCOUNTS 

MRS.  BELLEW  sat  on  her  bed  smoothing  out 
the  halves  of  a  letter;  by  her  side  was  her 
jewel-case.  Taking  from  it  an  amethyst  necklet 
an  emerald  pendant,  and  a  diamond  ring,  she  wrapped 
them  in  cotton-wool,  and  put  them  in  an  envelope. 
The  other  jewels  she  dropped  one  by  one  into  her 
lap,  and  sat  looking  at  them.  At  last,  putting  two 
necklets  and  two  rings  back  into  the  jewel-case,  she 
placed  the  rest  in  a  little  green  box,  and  taking  that 
and  the  envelope  went  out.  She  called  a  hansom, 
drove  to  a  post-office,  and  sent  a  telegram: 

"Pendyce,  Stoics*  Club, 

"Be  at  studio  six  to  seven. — H." 

From  the  post-office  she  drove  to  her  jeweller's 
and  many  a  man  who  saw  her  pass  with  the  flush 
on  her  cheeks  and  the  smouldering  look  in  her  eyes, 
as  though  a  fire  were  alight  in  her,  turned  in  his  tracks 
and  bitterly  regretted  that  he  knew  not  who  she  was, 
or  whither  going.  The  jeweller  took  the  jewels  from 
the  green  box,  weighed  them  one  by  one,  and  slowly 
examined  each  through  his  lens.  He  was  a  little 
man  with  a  yellow  wrinkled  face  and  a  weak  little 
beard,  and  having  fixed  in  his  mind  the  sum  that  he 
would  give,  he  looked  at  his  client  prepared  to  men- 
tion less.     She  was  sitting  with  her  elbows  on  the 


Mrs.  Bellew  Squares  her  Accounts  245 

counter,  her  chin  resting  in  her  hands,  and  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  him.  He  decided  somehow  to  mention 
the  exact  sum. 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes,  madam;  that  is  the  utmost." 

"  Very  well,  but  I  must  have  it  now  in  cash  I " 

The  jeweller's  eyes  flickered. 

"It's  a  large  sum,"  he  said — "most  unusual.  I 
have  n't  got  such  a  sum  in  the  place." 

"Then  please  send  out  and  get  it,  or  I  must  go 
elsewhere." 

The  jeweller  brought  his  hands  together,  and 
washed  them  nervously. 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment ;  I  '11  consult  my  partner." 

He  went  away,  and  from  afar  he  and  his  partner 
spied  her  nervously.  He  came  back  with  a  forced 
smile.     Mrs.  Bellew  was  sitting  as  he  had  left  her. 

"  It 's  a  fortunate  chance :  I  think  we  can  just  do 
it,  madam." 

"Give  me  notes,  please,  and  a  sheet  of  paper." 

The  jeweller  brought  them. 

Mrs.  Bellew  wrote  a  letter,  enclosed  it  with  the 
bank-notes  in  a  bulky  envelope  she  had  brought, 
addressed  it,  and  sealed  the  whole. 

"Call  a  cab,  please!" 

The  jeweller  called  a  cab. 

"  Chelsea  Embankment ! " 

The  cab  bore  her  away. 

Again  in  the  crowded  streets  so  full  of  traffic, 
people  turned  to  look  after  her.  The  cabman,  who 
put  her  down  at  the  Albert  Bridge,  gazed  alternately 
at  the  coins  in  his  hands  and  the  figure  of  his  fare, 
and  wheeling  his  cab  towards  the  stand,  jerked  his 
thumb  in  her  direction. 


246  The  Country  House 

Mrs.  Bellew  walked  fast  down  a  street  till,  turning 
a  comer,  she  came  suddenly  on  a  small  garden  with 
three  poplar-trees  in  a  row.  She  opened  its  green 
gate  without  pausing,  went  down  a  path,  and  stopped 
at  the  first  of  three  green  doors.  A  young  man  with 
a  beard,  resembling  an  artist,  who  was  standing  be- 
hind the  last  of  the  three  doors,  watched  her  with  a 
knowing  smile  on  his  face.  She  took  out  a  latch- 
key, put  it  in  the  lock,  opened  the  door,  and  passed  in. 

The  sight  of  her  face  seemed  to  have  given  the  artist 
an  idea.  Propping  his  door  open,  he  brought  an 
easel  and  canvas,  and  setting  them  so  that  he  could 
see  the  corner  where  she  had  gone  in,  began  to  sketch. 

An  old  stone  fountain  with  three  stone  frogs  stood 
in  the  garden  near  that  corner,  and  beyond  it  was  a 
flowering  currant-bush,  and  beyond  this  again  the 
green  door  on  which  a  slanting  gleam  of  sunlight 
fell.  He  worked  for  an  hour,  then  put  his  easel  back 
and  went  out  to  get  his  tea. 

Mrs.  Bellew  came  out  soon  after  he  was  gone.  She 
closed  the  door  behind  her,  and  stood  still.  Taking 
from  her  pocket  the  bulky  envelope,  she  slipped 
it  into  the  letter-box;  then  bending  down,  picked  up 
a  twig,  and  placed  it  in  the  slit,  to  prevent  the  lid 
falling  with  a  rattle.  Having  done  this,  she  swept 
her  hands  down  her  face  and  breast  as  though  to  brush 
something  from  her,  and  walked  away.  Beyond  the 
outer  gate  she  turned  to  the  left,  and  took  the  same 
street  back  to  the  river.  She  walked  slowly,  luxuri- 
ously, looking  about  her.  Once  or  twice  she  stopped, 
and  drew  a  deep  breath,  as  though  she  could  not  have 
enough  of  the  air.  She  went  as  far  as  the  Embank- 
ment, and  stood  leaning  her  elbows  on  the  parapet. 
Between  the  finger  and  thumb  of  one  hand  she  held 


Mrs.  Bellew  Squares  her  Accounts  247 

a  small  object  on  which  the  sun  was  shining.  It  was 
a  key.  Slowly,  luxuriously,  she  stretched  her  hand 
out  over  the  water,  parted  her  thumb  and  finger,  and 
let  it  fall. 


CHAPTER  IV 
MRS.  pendyce's  inspiration 

BUT  George  did  not  coma  to  take  his  mother  to 
the  theatre,  and  she  whose  day  had  been  passed 
in  looking  forward  to  the  evening,  passed  that  even- 
ing in  a  drawing-room  full  of  furniture  whose  history 
she  did  not  know,  and  a  dining-room  full  of  people 
eating  in  twos  and  threes  and  fours,  at  whom  she 
might  look,  but  to  whom  she  must  not  speak,  to 
whom  she  did  not  even  want  to  speak,  so  soon  had 
the  wheel  of  life  rolled  over  her  wonder  and  her  ex- 
pectation, leaving  it  lifeless  in  her  breast.  And  all 
that  night,  with  one  short  interval  of  sleep,  she  ate 
of  bitter  isolation  and  futility,  and  of  the  still  more 
bitter  knowledge:  "George  does  not  want  me;  I  *m 
no  good  to  him!" 

Her  heart,  seeking  consolation,  went  back  again  and 
again  to  the  time  when  he  had  wanted  her;  but  it 
was  far  to  go,  to  the  days  of  holland  suits,  when  all 
those  things  that  he  desired — slices  of  pineapple, 
Benson's  old  carriage-whip,  the  daily  reading  out  of 
Tom  Brown's  Schooldays,  the  rub  with  Elliman 
when  he  sprained  his  little  ankle,  the  tuck-up  in  bed 
— were  in  her  power  alone  to  give. 

This  night  she  saw  with  fatal  clearness  that  since 
he  went  to  school  he  had  never  wanted  her  at  all. 
She  had  tried  so  many  years  to  believe  that  he  did, 
till  it  had  become  part  of  her  life,  as  it  was  part  of  her 
life  to  say  her  prayers  night  and  morning;  and  now 

248 


Mrs.  Pendyce's  Inspiration        249 

she  found  it  was  all  pretence.  But,  lying  awake,  she 
still  tried  to  believe  it,  because  to  that  she  had  been 
bound  when  she  brought  him,  first-bom,  into  the 
world.  Her  other  son,  her  daughters,  she  loved 
them  too,  but  it  was  not  the  same  thing,  quite;  she 
had  never  wanted  them  to  want  her,  because  that 
part  of  her  had  been  given  once  for  all  to  George. 

The  street  noises  died  down  at  last;  she  had  slept 
two  hours  when  they  began  again.  She  lay  listening. 
And  the  noises  and  her  thoughts  became  entangled 
in  her  exhausted  brain — one  great  web  of  weariness, 
a  feeling  that  it  was  all  senseless  and  unnecessary, 
the  emanation  of  cross-purposes  and  cross-grained- 
ness,  the  negation  of  that  gentle  moderation,  her 
own  most  sacred  instinct.  And  an  early  wasp,  at- 
tracted by  the  sweet  perfumes  of  her  dressing-table, 
roused  himself  from  the  corner  where  he  had  spent 
the  night,  and  began  to  hum  and  hover  over  the  bed. 
Mrs.  Pendyce  was  a  little  afraid  of  wasps,  so,  taking 
a  moment  when  he  was  otherwise  engaged,  she  stole 
out,  and  fanned  him  with  her  nightdress-case  till, 
perceiving  her  to  be  a  lady,  he  went  away.  Lying 
down  again,  she  thought:  "People  will  worry  them 
until  they  sting,  and  then  kill  them ;  it  's  so  unreason- 
able,"  not  knowing  that  she  was  putting  all  her 
thoughts  on  suffering  in  a  single  nutshell. 

She  breakfasted  upstairs,  unsolaced  by  any  news 
from  George.  Then  with  no  definite  hope,  but  a 
sort  of  inner  certainty,  she  formed  the  resolution  to 
call  on  Mrs.  Bellew.  She  determined,  however,  first 
to  visit  Mr.  Paramor,  and,  having  but  a  hazy  notion 
of  the  hour  when  men  begin  to  work,  she  did  not  dare 
to  start  till  past  eleven,  and  told  her  cabman  ta 
drive  her  slowly.     He  drove  her,  therefore,  faster 


250  The  Country  House 

than  his  wont.  In  Leicester  Square  the  passage 
of  a  Personage  between  two  stations  blocked  the 
traffic,  and  on  the  foot-ways  were  gathered  a  crowd 
of  simple  folk  with  much  in  their  hearts  and  little 
in  their  stomachs,  who  raised  a  cheer  as  this  Per- 
sonage passed.  Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  eagerly  from 
her  cab,  for  she  too  loved  a  show. 

The  crowd  dispersed,  and  the  cab  went  on. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  found  herself 
in  a  business  apartment  of  any  professional  man  less 
important  than  a  dentist.  From  the  little  waiting- 
room,  where  they  handed  her  the  Times,  which  she 
could  not  read  from  excitement,  she  caught  sight  of 
rooms  lined  to  the  ceilings  with  leather  books  and 
black  tin  boxes,  initialed  in  white  to  indicate  the 
brand,  and  of  the  young  men  seated  behind  lumps 
of  paper  that  had  been  written  on.  She  heard  a 
perpetual  clicking  noise  that  roused  her  interest, 
and  smelled  a  peculiar  odour  of  leather  and  disin- 
fectant which  impressed  her  disagreeably.  A  youth 
with  reddish  hair  and  a  pen  in  his  hand  passed  through 
and  looked  at  her  with  a  curious  stare  which  he  im- 
mediately averted.  She  suddenly  felt  sorry  for  him 
and  those  other  young  men  behind  the  lumps  of 
paper,  and  the  thought  flashed  through  her  mind,  **I 
suppose  it  's  all  because  people  can't  agree." 

She  was  shown  in  to  Mr.  Paramor  at  last.  In  his 
large  empty  room,  with  its  air  of  past  grandeur,  she 
sat  gazing  at  three  La  France  roses  in  a  tumbler  of 
water  with  the  feeling  that  she  would  never  be  able 
to  begin. 

Mr.  Paramor's  eyebrows,  which  jutted  from  his 
clean,  brown  face  like  little  clumps  of  pot-hooks, 
were  iron-grey,  and  iron-grey  his  hair  brushed  back 


Mrs.  Pendyce's  Inspiration         251 

from  his  high  forehead.  Mrs.  Pendyce  wondered 
why  he  looked  five  years  younger  than  Horace,  who 
was  his  junior,  and  ten  years  younger  than  Charles, 
who,  of  course,  was  younger  still.  His  eyes,  which 
from  iron-grey  some  inner  process  of  spiritual  manu- 
facture had  made  into  steel  colour,  looked  young,  too, 
although  they  were  grave,  and  the  smile  which  twisted 
up  the  comers  of  his  mouth  looked  very  young. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it  's  a  great  pleasure  to  see  you." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  could  only  answer  with  a  smile. 

Mr.  Paramor  put  the  roses  to  his  nose. 

"Not  so  good  as  yours,"  he  said,  "are  they?  but 
the  best  I  can  do." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  blushed  with  pleasure. 

"My  garden  is  looking  so  beautiful "     Then, 

remembering  that  she  no  longer  had  a  garden,  she 
stopped;  but  remembering  also  that,  though  she  had 
lost  her  garden,  Mr.  Paramor  still  had  his,  she  added 
quickly:  "And  yours,  Mr.  Paramor — I  'm  sure  it 
must  be  looking  lovely." 

Mr.  Paramor  drew  out  a  kind  of  dagger  with  which 
he  had  stabbed  some  papers  to  his  desk,  and  took  a 
letter  from  the  bundle. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  's  looking  very  nice.  You  'd 
like  to  see  this,  I  expect." 

"Bellew  V.  Bellew  and  Pendyce"  was  written  at 
the  top.  Mrs.  Pendyce  stared  at  those  words  as 
though  fascinated  by  their  beauty ;  it  was  long  before 
she  got  beyond  them.  For  the  first  time  the  full 
horror  of  these  matters  pierced  the  kindly  armour 
that  lies  between  mortals  and  what  they  do  not  like 
to  think  of.  Two  men  and  a  woman  wrangling, 
fighting,  tearing  each  other  before  the  eyes  of  all  the 
world.      .\  woman  and  two  men  stripped  of  charity 


252  The  Country  House 

and  gentleness,  of  moderation  and  sympathy- 
stripped  of  all  that  made  life  decent  and  lovable, 
squabbling  like  savages  before  the  eyes  of  all  the 
world.  Two  men,  and  one  of  them  her  son,  and 
between  them  a  woman  whom  both  of  them  had 
loved!  *'Bellew  v,  Bellew  and  Pendyce!"  And 
this  would  go  down  to  fame  in  company  with  the 
pitiful  stories  she  had  read  from  time  to  time  with  a 
sort  of  offended  interest;  in  company  with  "Snooks 
V.  Snooks  and  Stiles,"  "Horaday  v.  Horaday, " 
"Bethany  v.  Bethany  and  Sweetenham. "  In  com- 
pany with  all  those  cases  where  everybody  seemed 
so  dreadful,  yet  where  she  had  often  and  often  felt 
so  sorry,  as  if  these  poor  creatures  had  been  fastened 
in  the  stocks  by  some  malignant,  loutish  spirit,  for 
all  that  would  to  come  and  jeer  at.  And  horror  filled 
her  heart.     It  was  all  so  mean,  and  gross,  and  common. 

The  letter  contained  but  a  few  words  from  a  firm 
of  solicitors  confirming  an  appointment.  She  looked 
up  at  Mr.  Paramor.  He  stopped  pencilling  on  his 
blotting-paper,  and  said  at  once: 

"I  shall  be  seeing  these  people  myself  to-morrow 
afternoon.  I  shall  do  my  best  to  make  them  see 
reason. " 

She  felt  from  his  eyes  that  he  knew  what  she  was 
suffering,  and  was  even  suffering  with  her. 

"And  if— if  they  won't?" 

"Then  I  shall  go  on  a  different  tack  altogether, 
and  they  must  look  out  for  themselves. " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  sank  back  in  her  chair;  she  seemed 
to  smell  again  that  smell  of  leather  and  disinfectant, 
and  hear  a  sound  of  incessant  clicking.  She  felt  faint 
and  to  disguise  that  faintness  asked  at  random, 
"What  does  'without  prejudice'  in  this  letter  mean?" 


Mrs.  Pendyce*s  Inspiration       253 

Mr.  Paramor  smiled. 

"That  's  an  expression  we  always  use,*'  he  said. 
**It  means  that  when  we  give  a  thing  away,  we  re- 
serve to  ourselves  the  right  of  taking  it  back  again.  '* 

Mrs.  Pendyce,  who  did  not  understand,  murmured: 

*'I  see.     But  what  have  they  given  away?" 

Mr.  Paramor  put  his  elbows  on  the  desk,  and  lightly 
pressed  his  finger-tips  together. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "properly  speaking,  in  a  matter 
like  this,  the  other  side  and  I  are  cat  and  dog.  We 
are  supposed  to  know  nothing  about  each  other  and  to 
want  to  know  less,  so  that  when  we  do  each  other  a 
courtesy  we  are  obliged  to  save  our  faces  by  saying, 
•We  don't  really  do  you  one. '     D'  you  understand? " 

Again  Mrs.  Pendyce  murmured: 

"I  see." 

"It  sounds  a  little  provincial,  but  we  lawyers  exist 
by  reason  of  provincialism.  If  people  were  once  to 
begin  making  allowances  for  each  other,  I  don't  know 
where  we  should  be. " 

Mrs.  Pendyce's  eyes  fell  again  on  those  words, 
"  Bellew  V.  Bellew  and  Pendyce, "  and  again,  as  though 
fascinated  by  their  beauty,  rested  there. 

"But  you  wanted  to  see  me  about  something  else 
too,  perhaps?"  said  Mr.  Paramor. 

A  sudden  panic  came  over  her. 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you.  I  just  wanted  to  know  what 
had  been  done.  I  've  come  up  on  purpose  to  see 
George.     You  told  me  that  I " 

Mr.  Paramor  hastened  to  her  aid. 

"Yes,  yes;  quite  right — quite  right.*' 

"Horace  hasn't  come  with  me." 

"Good!" 

"He  and  George  sometimes  don't  quite * 


254  The  Country  House 

"Hit  it  off?     They  're  too  much  alike." 

"Do  you  think  so?     I  never  saw " 

'*  Not  in  face,  not  in  face ;  but  they  've  both  got *' 

Mr.  Paramor's  meaning  was  lost  in  a  smile;  and 
Mrs.  Pendyce,  who  did  not  know  that  the  word 
"Pendycitis"  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  smiled 
vaguely  too. 

"George  is  very  determined,"  she  said.  "Do 
you  think — oh,  do  you  think,  Mr.  Paramor,  that 
you  will  be  able  to  persuade  Captain  Bellew's  so- 
licitors  " 

Mr.  Paramor  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and 
his  hand  covered  what  he  nad  written  on  his  blotting- 
paper. 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly — "oh,  yes,  yes!" 

But  Mrs.  Pendyce  had  had  her  answer.  She  had 
meant  to  speak  of  her  visit  to  Helen  Bellew,  but  now 
her  thought  was: 

"He  won't  persuade  them;  I  feel  it.  Let  me  get 
away!" 

Again  she  seemed  to  hear  the  incessant  clicking, 
to  smell  leather  and  disinfectant,  to  see  those  words, 
"Bellew  V,  Bellew  and  Pendyce." 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

Mr.  Paramor  took  it  in  his  own  and  looked  at  the 
floor. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said — "good-bye.  What  's  your 
address — Green's  Hotel?  I'll  come  and  tell  yci^ 
what  I  do.     I  know — I  know!" 

Mrs.  Pendyce,  on  whom  those  words  "I  know — I 
know!"  had  a  strange,  emotionalising  effect,  as 
though  no  one  had  ever  known  before,  went  away 
with  quivering  lips.  In  her  life  no  one  had  ever 
"known" — ^not  indeed  that  she  could  or  would  com- 


Mrs.  Pendyce's  Inspiration       255 

plain  of  such  a  trifle,  but  the  fact  remained.  And 
at  this  moment,  oddly,  she  thought  of  her  husband, 
and  wondered  what  he  was  doing,  and  felt  sorry 
for  him. 

But  Mr.  Paramor  went  back  to  his  seat  and  stared 
at  what  he  had  written  on  his  blotting-paper.  It 
ran  thus: 

'•  We  stand  on  our  petty  rights  here. 
And  our  petty  dignity  there; 
We  make  no  allowance  for  others. 
They  make  no  allowance  for  us; 
We  catch  hold  of  them  by  the  ear. 
They  grab  hold  of  us  by  the  hair— 
The  result  is  a  bit  of  a  muddle 
That  ends  in  a  bit  of  a  fuss." 

He  saw  that  it  neither  rhymed  nor  scanned,  and 
with  a  grave  face  he  tore  it  up. 

Again  Mrs.  Pendyce  told  her  cabman  to  drive 
slowly,  and  again  he  drove  her  faster  than  usual; 
yet  that  drive  to  Chelsea  seemed  to  last  for  ever, 
and  interminable  were  the  turnings  which  the  cabman 
took,  each  one  shorter  than  the  last,  as  if  he  had  re- 
solved to  see  how  much  his  horse's  mouth  could  bear. 

"Poor  thing!"  thought  Mrs.  Pendyce;  "its  mouth 
must  be  so  sore,  and  it  's  quite  unnecessary. "  She 
put  her  hand  up  through  the  trap.  "Please  take 
me  in  a  straight  line.     I  don't  like  corners." 

The  cabman  obeyed.  It  worried  him  terribly  to 
take  one  corner  instead  of  the  six  he  had  purposed 
on  his  way;  and  when  she  asked  him  his  fare,  he 
charged  her  a  shilling  extra  for  the  distance  he  had 
saved  by  going  straight.  Mrs.  Pendyce  paid  it, 
knowing   no   better,   and   gave   him   sixpence  over, 


256  The  Country  House 

thinking  it  might  benefit  the  horse;  and  the  cabman, 
touching  his  hat,  said: 

"Thank  you,  my  lady,"  for  to  say  **my  lady"  was 
his  principle  when  he  received  eighteenpencc  above 
his  fare. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  stood  quite  a  minute  on  the  pave- 
ment, stroking  the  horse's  nose  and  thinking: 

"I  must  go  in;  it  's  silly  to  come  all  this  way  and 
not  go  in!" 

But  her  heart  beat  so  that  she  could  hardly  swallow. 

At  last  she  rang. 

Mrs.  Bellew  was  seated  on  the  sofa  in  her  little 
drawing-room  whistling  to  a  canary  in  the  open 
window.  In  the  affairs  of  men  there  is  an  irony 
constant,  and  deep,  mingled  with  the  very  springs 
of  life.  The  expectations  of  Mrs.  Pendyce,  those 
timid  apprehensions  of  this  meeting  that  had  racked 
her  all  the  way,  were  lamentably  unfulfilled.  She 
had  rehearsed  the  scene  ever  since  it  came  into  her 
head;  the  reality  seemed  unfamiliar.  She  felt  no 
nervousness  and  no  hostility,  only  a  sort  of  painful 
interest  and  admiration.  And  how  could  this  or  any 
other  woman  help  falling  in  love  with  George? 

The  first  uncertain  minute  over,  Mrs.  Bellew's  eyes 
were  as  friendly  as  if  she  had  been  quite  within  her 
rights  in  all  she  had  done;  and  Mrs.  Pendyce  could 
not  help  meeting  friendliness  half-way. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me  for  coming.  George 
does  n't  know.  I  felt  I  must  come  to  see  you.  Do 
you  think  that  you  two  quite  know  all  you  're  doing? 
It  seems  so  dreadful,  and  it  's  not  only  yourselves, 
is  it?'* 

Mrs.  Bellew's  smile  vanished. 

"Please  don't  say  'you  two,'  she  said. 


Mrs.  Pendyce's  Inspiration       257 

Mrs.  Pendyce  stammered: 

"I  don't  understand." 

Mrs.  Belle w  looked  her  in  the  face  and  smiled; 
and  as  she  smiled  she  seemed  to  become  a  little 
roarser. 

"Well,  I  think  it  's  quite  time  you  did!  I  don't 
love  your  son.  I  did  once,  but  I  don't  now.  I  told 
him  so  yesterday,  once  for  all. " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  heard  those  words,  which  made  so 
vast,  so  wonderful  a  difference — ^words  which  should 
have  been  like  water  in  a  wilderness — ^with  a  sort  of 
horror,  and  all  her  spirit  flamed  up  into  her 
eyes. 

"You  don't  love  him?"  she  cried. 

She  felt  only  a  blind  sense  of  insult  and  affront. 

This  woman  tire  of  George !  Tire  of  her  son !  She 
looked  at  Mrs.  Bellew,  on  whose  face  was  a  kind  of 
inquisitive  compassion,  with  eyes  that  had  never 
before  held  hatred. 

**  You  have  tired  of  him?  You  have  given  him  up? 
Then  the  sooner  I  go  to  him  the  better!  Give  me 
the  address  of  his  rooms,  please." 

Helen  Bellew  knelt  down  at  the  bureau  and  wrote 
on  an  envelope,  and  the  grace  of  the  woman  pierced 
Mrs.  Pendyce  to  the  heart. 

She  took  the  paper.  She  had  never  learned 
the  art  of  abuse,  and  no  words  could  express 
what  was  in  her  heart,  so  she  turned  and  went 
out. 

Mrs.  Bellew's  voice  sounded  quick  and  fierce  behind 
her. 

"How  could  I  help  getting  tired?  I  am  not  you. 
Now  go!" 

Mrs.    Pendyce    wrenched    open    the    outer    door. 


258  The  Country  House 

Descending  the  stairs,  she  felt  for  the  bannister.  She 
had  that  awful  sense  of  physical  soreness  and  shrinking 
which  violence,  whether  their  own  or  others',  brings 
to  gentle  souls. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  MOTHER  AND  THE  SON 

TO  Mrs.  Pendyce,  Chelsea  was  an  unknown  land, 
and  to  find  her  way  to  George's  rooms  would 
have  taken  her  long  had  she  been  by  nature  what  she 
was  by  name,  for  Pendyces  never  asked  their  way  to 
anything,  or  believed  what  they  were  told,  but  found 
out  for  themselves  with  much  imnecessary  trouble, 
of  which  they  afterwards  complained. 

A  policeman  first,  and  then  a  young  man  with  a 
beard  resembling  an  artist,  guided  her  footsteps. 
The  latter,  who  was  leaning  by  a  gate,  opened 
it. 

'Tn  here,"  he  said;  "the  door  in  the  corner  on  the 
right." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  walked  down  the  little  path,  past 
the  ruined  fountain  with  its  three  stone  frogs,  and 
stood  by  the  first  green  door  and  waited.  And  while 
she  waited  she  struggled  between  fear  and  joy ;  for 
now  that  she  was  away  from  Mrs.  Bellew  she  no 
longer  felt  a  sense  of  insult.  It  was  the  actual  sight 
of  her  that  had  aroused  it,  so  personal  is  even  the 
most  gentle  heart. 

She  found  the  rusty  handle  of  a  bell  amongst  the 
creeper-leaves,  and  pulled  it.  A  cracked  metallic 
tinkle  answered  her,  but  no  one  came;  only  a  faint 
sound  as  of  some  one  pacing  to  and  fro.  Then  in  the 
street  beyond  the  outer  gate  a  coster  began  calling 
to  the  sky,  and  in  the  music  of  his  prayers  the  soimd 

.  259 


26o  The  Country  House 

was  lost.  The  young  man  with  a  beard,  resembling 
an  artist,  came  down  the  path. 

"Perhaps  you  could  tell  me,  sir,  if  my  son  is 
out.?" 

"I  *ve  not  seen  him  go  out,  and  I  've  been  painting 
here  all  the  morning." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  with  wonder  at  an  easel  which 
stood  outside  another  door  a  little  further  on.  It 
seemed  to  her  strange  that  her  son  should  live  in 
such  a  place. 

"Shall  I  knock  for  you?"  said  the  artist.  "All 
these  knockers  are  stiff." 

"If  you  would  be  so  kind!" 

The  artist  knocked. 

"He  must  be  in,"  he  said.  "I  have  n't  taken  my 
eyes  off  his  door,  because  I  've  been  painting  it. " 

Mrs.  Pendyce  gazed  at  the  door. 

"I  can't  get  it,"  said  the  artist.  "It  's  worrying 
me  to  death." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  at  him  doubtfully. 

"Has  he  no  servant?"  she  said. 

"Oh  no,"  said  the  artist  ;  "it's  a  studio.  The 
light  's  all  wrong.  I  wonder  if  you  would  mind 
standing  just  as  you  are  for  one  second;  it  would  help 
me  a  lot!" 

He  moved  back  and  curved  his  hand  over  his  eyes, 
and  through  Mrs.  Pendyce  there  passed  a  shiver. 

"  Why  doe^  n't  George  open  the  door  ? "  she  thought, 
"What — ^what  is  this  man  doing?" 

The  artist  dropped  his  hand. 

"Thanks  so  much!"  he  said.  "1  '11  knock  again. 
There!  that  would  raise  the  dead!" 

And  he  laughed. 

An  unreasoning  terror  seized  on  Mrs.  Pendyce. 


The  Mother  and  the  Son  261 

"Oh,"  she  stammered,  "I  must  get  in — I  mtist  get 
in!" 

She  took  the  knocker  herself,  and  fluttered  it 
against  the  door. 

"You  see, "  said  the  artist,  "they  're  all  alike;  these 
knockers  are  as  stiff  as  pokers. " 

He  again  curved  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  Mrs. 
Pendyce  leaned  against  the  door;  her  knees  were 
trembling  violently. 

"What  is  happening?"  she  thought.  "Perhaps 
he  's  only  asleep,  perhaps Oh,  God!" 

She  beat  the  knocker  with  all  her  force.  The  door 
yielded,  and  in  the  space  stood  George.  Choking 
back  a  sob,  Mrs.  Pendyce  went  in.  He  banged  the 
door  behind  her. 

For  a  full  minute  she  did  not  speak,  possessed  still 
by  that  strange  terror  and  by  a  sort  of  shame.  She 
did  not  even  look  at  her  son,  but  cast  timid  glances 
round  his  room.  She  saw  a  gallery  at  the  far  end, 
and  a  conical  roof  half  made  of  glass.  She  saw 
curtains  hanging  all  the  gallery  length,  a  table  with 
tea-things  and  decanters,  a  round  iron  stove,  rugs  on 
the  floor,  and  a  large  full-length  mirror  in  the  centre 
of  the  wall.  A  silver  cup  of  flowers  was  reflected  in 
that  mirror.  Mrs.  Pendyce  saw  that  they  were  dead, 
and  the  sense  of  their  vague  and  nauseating  odour 
was  her  first  definite  sensation. 

"Your  flowers  are  dead,  my  darling,"  she  said. 
"I  must  get  you  some  fresh!" 

Not  till  then  did  she  look  at  George.  There  were 
circles  under  his  eyes;  his  face  was  yellow:  it  seemed 
to  her  that  it  had  shrunk.  This  terrified  her,  and 
she  thought: 

"I  must  show  nothing;  I  must  keep  my  head  I" 


262  The  Country  House 

She  was  afraid — afraid  of  something  desperate  in 
his  face,  of  something  desperate  and  headlong,  and 
she  was  afraid  of  his  stubbornness,  the  dumb,  un- 
thinking stubbornness  that  holds  to  what  has  been 
because  it  has  been,  that  holds  to  its  own  when  its 
own  is  dead.  She  had  so  little  of  this  quality  herself 
that  she  could  not  divine  where  it  might  lead  him; 
but  she  had  lived  in  the  midst  of  it  all  her  married 
life,  and  it  seemed  natural  that  her  son  should  be 
in  danger  from  it  now. 

Her  terror  called  up  her  self-possession.  She  drew 
George  down  on  the  sofa  by  her  side,  and  the  thought 
flashed  through  her:  "How  many  times  has  he  not 
sat  here  with  that  woman  in  his  arms!" 

"You  did  n't  come  for  me  last  night,  dear!  I  got 
the  tickets,  such  good  ones!" 

George  smiled. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  had  something  else  to  see  to!" 

At  sight  of  that  smile,  Margery  Pendyce's  heart 
beat  till  she  felt  sick,  but  she,  too,  smiled. 

"  What  a  nice  place  you  have  here,  darling! " 

"There  's  room  to  walk  about." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  remembered  the  sound  she  had  heard 
of  pacing  to  and  fro.  From  his  not  asking  her  how 
she  had  found  out  where  he  lived  she  knew  that  he 
must  have  guessed  where  she  had  been,  that  there 
was  nothing  for  either  of  them  to  tell  the  other.  And 
though  this  was  a  relief,  it  added  to  her  terror — the 
terror  of  that  which  is  desperate.  All  sorts  of  images 
passed  through  her  mind.  She  saw  George  back  in 
her  bedroom  after  his  first  run  with  the  hounds,  his 
chubby  cheek  scratched  from  forehead  to  jaw,  and 
the  blood-stained  pad  of  a  cub  fox  in  his  little  gloved 
hand.     She  saw  him  sauntering  into  her  room  the 


The  Mother  and  the  Son  263 

last  day  of  the  1880  match  at  Lords,  with  a  battered 
top-hat,  a  blackened  eye,  and  a  cane  with  a  light- 
blue  tassel.  She  saw  him  deadly  pale  with  tightened 
lips  that  afternoon  after  he  had  escaped  from  her,  half 
cured  of  laryngitis,  and  stolen  out  shooting  by  him- 
self, and  she  remembered  his  words:  "Well,  mother, 
I  could  n't  stand  it  any  longer  ;  it  was  too  beastly 
slow!" 

Suppose  he  could  not  stand  it  now!  Suppose  he 
should  do  something  rash!  She  took  out  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

"  It  *s  very  hot  in  here,  dear;  your  forehead  is  quite 
wet!" 

She  saw  his  eyes  turn  on  her  suspiciously,  and  all 
her  woman's  wit  stole  into  her  own  eyes,  so  that  they 
did  not  flicker,  but  looked  at  him  with  matter-of-fact 
concern. 

"That  skylight  is  what  does  it,"  he  said.  "The 
sun  gets  full  on  there." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  at  the  skylight. 

"It  seems  odd  to  see  you  here,  dear,  but  it  's  very 
nice — so  imconventional.  You  must  let  me  put 
away  those  poor  flowers!"  She  went  to  the  silver 
cup  and  bent  over  them.  "My  dear  boy,  they're 
quite  nasty!  Do  throw  them  outside  somewhere; 
it  's  so  dreadful,  the  smell  of  old  flowers!" 

She  held  the  cup  out,  covering  her  nose  with  her 
handkerchief. 

George  took  the  cup,  and  like  a  cat  spying  a  mouse, 
Mrs.  Pendyce  watched  him  take  it  out  into  the  garden. 
As  the  door  closed,  quicker,  more  noiseless  than  a 
cat,  she  slipped  behind  the  curtains. 

"I  know  he  has  a  pistol,"  she  thought. 

She  was  back  in  an  instant,  gliding  round  the  room 


264  The  Country  House 

hunting  with  her  eyes  and  hands,  but  she  saw  nothing, 
and  her  heart  lightened,  for  she  was  terrified  of  all 
such  things. 

"It  's  only  these  terrible  first  hours,"  she  thought. 

When  George  came  back  she  was  standing  where 
he  had  left  her.  They  sat  down  in  silence,  and  in 
that  silence,  the  longest  of  her  life,  she  seemed  to  feel 
all  that  was  in  his  heart,  all  the  blackness  and  bitter 
aching,  the  rage  of  defeat  and  starved  possession, 
the  lost  delight,  the  sensation  of  ashes  and  disgust; 
and  yet  her  heart  was  full  enough  already  of  relief 
and  shame,  compassion,  jealousy,  love,  and  deep 
longing.  Only  twice  was  the  silence  broken.  Once 
when  he  asked  her  whether  she  had  lunched,  and  she 
who  had  eaten  nothing  all  day  answered: 

"Yes,  dear — yes." 

Once  when  he  said: 

"You  shouldn't  have  come  here,  mother;  I'm 
a  bit  out  of  sorts!" 

She  watched  his  face,  dearest  to  her  in  all  the 
world,  bent  towards  the  floor,  and  she  so  yearned 
to  hold  it  to  her  breast  that,  since  she  dared  not,  the 
tears  stole  up,  and  silently  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 
The  stillness  in  that  room,  chosen  for  remoteness, 
was  like  the  stillness  of  a  tomb,  and,  as  in  a  tomb, 
there  was  no  outlook  on  the  world,  for  the  glass  of 
the  skylight  was  opaque. 

That  deathly  stillness  settled  round  her  heart;  her 
eyes  fixed  themselves  on  the  skylight,  as  though  be- 
seeching it  to  break  and  let  in  sound.  A  cat,  making 
a  pilgrimage  from  roof  to  roof,  the  four  dark  moving 
spots  of  its  paws,  the  faint  blur  of  its  body,  was  all 
she  saw.  And  suddenly,  unable  to  bear  it  any  longer, 
she  cried; 


The  Mother  and  the  Son  265 

"Oh,  George,  speak  to  me!  Don't  put  me  away 
from  you  like  this!" 

George  answered: 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say,  mother?" 

**  Nothing — only " 

And  falling  on  her  knees  beside  her  son,  she  pulled 
his  head  down  against  her  breast,  and  stayed  rocking 
herself  to  and  fro,  silently  shifting  closer  till  she  could 
feel  his  head  lie  comfortably;  so,  she  had  his  face 
against  her  heart,  and  she  could  not  bear  to  let  it 
go.  Her  knees  hurt  her  on  the  boarded  floor,  her  back 
and  all  her  body  ached;  but  not  for  worlds  would 
she  relax  an  inch,  believing  that  she  could  comfort 
him  with  her  pain,  and  her  tears  fell  on  his  neck. 
When  at  last  he  drew  his  face  away,  she  sank  down 
on  the  floor,  and  could  not  rise,  but  her  fingers  felt 
that  the  bosom  of  her  dress  was  wet.  He  said 
hoarsely : 

"It 's  all  right.  Mother;  you  need  n't  worry!" 

For  no  reward  would  she  have  looked  at  him  just 
then,  but  with  a  deeper  certainty  than  reason  she 
knew  that  he  was  safe. 

Stealthily  on  the  sloping  skylight  the  cat  retraced 
her  steps,  its  four  paws,  dark  moving  spots,  its  body 
a  faint  blur. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  rose. 

"  I  won't  stay  now,  darling.     May  I  use  your  glass  1 " 

Standing  before  that  mirror,  smoothing  back  her 
hair,  passing  her  handkerchief  over  her  cheeks  and 
eyes  and  lips,  she  thought: 

"That  woman  has  stood  here!  That  woman  has 
smoothed  her  hair,  looking  in  this  glass,  and  wiped  his 
kisses  from  her  cheeks!  May  God  give  to  her  the 
pain  that  she  has  given  to  my  son!" 


266  The  Country  House 

But  when  she  had  wished  that  wish  she  shivered. 

She  turned  to  George  at  the  door  with  a  smile  that 
seemed  to  say: 

"  It 's  no  good  to  weep,  or  to  try  to  tell  you  what  is 
in  my  heart,  and  so,  you  see,  I  'm  smiling.  Please 
smile,  too,  so  as  to  comfort  me  a  little." 

George  put  a  small  paper  parcel  in  her  hand  and 
tried  to  smile. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  went  quickly  out.  Bewildered  by 
the  sunlight,  she  did  not  look  at  this  parcel  till  she 
was  beyond  the  outer  gate.  It  contained  an  amethyst 
necklace,  an  emerald  pendant,  and  a  diamond  ring. 
In  the  little  grey  street  tfiat  led  to  this  garden  with 
its  poplars,  old  fountain,  and  green  gate,  the  jewels 
glowed  and  sparkled  as  though  all  light  and  life  had 
settled  there.  Mrs.  Pendyce,  who  loved  colour  and 
glowing  things,  saw  that  they  were  beautiful. 

That  woman  had  taken  them,  used  their  light  and 
colour,  and  then  flung  them  back!  She  wrapped 
them  again  in  the  paper,  tied  the  string,  and  went 
towards  the  river.  She  did  not  hurry,  but  walked 
with  her  eyes  steadily  before  her.  She  crossed  the 
Embankment,  and  stood  leaning  on  the  parapet  with 
her  hands  over  the  grey  water.  Her  thumb  and 
fingers  unclosed;  the  white  parcel  dropped,  floated 
a  second,  and  then  disappeared. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  round  her  with  a  start.  A 
young  man  with  a  beard,  whose  face  was  familiar, 
was  raising  his  hat. 

"So  your  son  was  in,"  he  said.  **I  *m  very  glad. 
I  must  thank  you  again  for  standing  to  me  just  that 
minute;  it  made  all  the  difference.  It  was  the  re- 
lation between  the  figure  and  the  door  that  I  wante(^ 
to  get.     Good- morning ! " 


The  Mother  and  the  Son  267 

Mrs.  Pendyce  murmured  "  Good- morning, "  fol- 
lowing him  with  startled  eyes,  as  though  he  had 
caught  her  in  the  commission  of  a  crime.  She  had 
a  vision  of  those  jewels,  buried,  poor  things!  in  the 
grey  slime,  a  prey  to  gloom,  and  robbed  for  ever  of 
their  light  and  colour.  And,  as  though  she  had  sinned, 
wronged  the  gentle  essence  of  her  nature,  she  hurried 
away. 


I 


CHAPTER  VI 

GREGORY  LOOKS  AT  THE  SKY 

WHEN  Gregory  Vigil  called  Mr.  Paramor  a 
pessimist  it  was  because,  like  other  people, 
he  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  term ;  for  with  a 
confusion  common  to  the  minds  of  many  persons  who 
have  been  conceived  in  misty  moments,  he  thought 
that,  to  see  things  as  they  were,  meant  to  try  and 
make  them  worse.  Gregory  had  his  own  way  of 
seeing  things  that  was  very  dear  to  him — so  dear  that 
he  would  shut  his  eyes  sooner  than  see  them  any 
other  way.  And  since  things  to  him  were  not  the 
same  as  things  to  Mr.  Paramor,  it  cannot,  after  all, 
be  said  that  he  did  not  see  things  as  they  were.  But 
dirt  upon  a  face  that  he  wished  to  be  clean  he  could 
not  see — a.  fluid  in  his  blue  eyes  dissolved  that  dirt 
while  the  image  of  the  face  was  passing  on  to  their 
retinae.  The  process  was  unconscious,  and  has  been 
called  idealism.  This  was  why  the  longer  he  reflected 
the  more  agonisedly  certain  he  became  that  his  ward 
was  right  to  be  faithful  to  the  man  she  loved,  right 
to  join  her  life  to  his.  And  he  went  about  pressing 
the  blade  of  this  thought  into  his  soul. 

About  four  o'clock  on  the  day  of  Mrs.  Pendyce's 
visit  to  the  studio  a  letter  was  brought  him  by  a 
page-boy. 

**  Dear  Grig, 

"I   have  seen   Helen  Bellew,  and  have  just 
268 


Gregory  Looks  at  the  Sky        269 

come  from  George.  We  have  all  been  living  in  a 
bad  dream.  She  does  not  love  him — perhaps  has 
never  loved  him.  I  do  not  know;  I  do  not  wish  to 
judge.  She  has  given  him  up.  I  will  not  trust  my- 
self to  say  anything  about  that.  From  beginning 
to  end  it  all  seems  so  unnecessary,  such  a  needless, 
cross-grained  muddle.  I  write  this  line  to  tell  you 
how  things  really  are,  and  to  beg  you  if  you  have  a 
moment  to  spare^  to  look  in  at  George's  club  this 
evening  and  let  me  know  if  he  is  there  and  how  he 
seems.  There  is  no  one  else  that  I  could  possibly 
ask  to  do  this  for  me.  Forgive  me  if  this  letter  pains 
you. 

"Your  affectionate  cousin, 

"Margery  Pendyce." 

To  those  with  the  single  eye,  the  narrow  personal 
view  of  all  things  human,  by  whom  the  irony  under- 
lying the  affairs  of  men  is  unseen  and  unenjoyed, 
whose  simple  hearts  afford  that  irony  its  most  precious 
smiles,  who,  vanquished  by  that  irony,  remain  in- 
vincible— to  these  no  blow  of  Fate,  no  reversal  of 
their  ideas,  can  long  retain  importance.  The  darts 
stick,  quaver,  and  fall  off,  like  arrows  from  chain- 
armour,  and  the  last  dart,  slipping  upwards  under 
the  harness,  quivers  into  the  heart  to  the  cry  of 
"What— you!     No,  no;  I  don't  believe  you  're  here!" 

Such  as  these  have  done  much  of  what  has  had  to 
be  done  in  this  old  world,  and  perhaps  still  more  of 
what  had  had  to  be  undone. 

When  Gregory  received  this  letter  he  was  working 
on  the  case  of  a  woman  with  the  morphia  habit.  He 
put  it  into  his  pocket  and  went  on  working.  It  was 
all  he  was  capable  of  doing. 


270  The  Country  House 

"Here  is  the  memorandum,  Mrs.  Shortman.  Let 
them  take  her  for  six  weeks.  She  will  come  out  a 
different  woman." 

Mrs.  Shortman,  supporting  her  thin  face  in  her 
thin  hand,  rested  her  glowing  eyes  on  Gregory. 

"I  'm  afraid  she  has  lost  all  moral  sense, "  she  said. 
*'Do  you  know,  Mr.  Vigil,  I  'm  almost  afraid  she 
never  had  any!" 

**What  do  you  mean?" 

Mrs.  Shortman  turned  her  eyes  away. 

"I  'm  sometimes  tempted  to  think,"  she  said, 
*'that  there  are  such  people.  I  wonder  whether  we 
allow  enough  for  that.  When  I  was  a  girl  in  the 
country  I  remember  the  daughter  of  our  vicar,  a  very 
pretty  creature.  There  were  dreadful  stories  about 
her,  even  before  she  was  married,  and  then  we  heard 
she  was  divorced.  She  came  up  to  London  and 
earned  her  own  living  by  playing  the  piano  until  she 
married  again.  I  won't  tell  you  her  name,  but  she 
is  very  well  known,  and  nobody  has  ever  seen  her 
show  the  slightest  signs  of  being  ashamed.  If  there 
is  one  woman  like  that,  there  may  be  dozens,  and  I 
sometimes  think  we  waste " 

Gregory  said  drily: 

"I  have  heard  you  say  that  before." 

Mrs.  Shortman  bit  her  lips. 

"I  don't  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  grudge  my 
efforts  or  my  time. " 

Gregory  went  quickly  up,  and  took  her  hand. 

"I  know  that — oh,  I  know  that,"  he  said  with 
feeling. 

The  sound  of  Miss  Mallow  furiously  typing  rose 
suddenly  from  the  corner.  Gregory  removed  his 
hat  from  the  peg  on  which  it  hung. 


Gregory  Looks  at  the  Sky        271 

*'I  must  go  now.'*  he  said.     "Good-night.** 

Without  warning,  as  is  the  way  with  hearts,  his 
heart  had  begun  to  bleed,  and  he  felt  that  he  must 
be  in  the  open  air.  He  took  no  omnibus  or  cab,  but 
strode  along  with  all  his  might,  trying  to  think,  trying 
to  understand.  But  he  could  only  feel — confused 
and  battered  feelings,  with  now  and  then  odd  throbs 
of  pleasure  of  which  he  was  ashamed.  Whether  he 
knew  it  or  not,  he  was  making  his  way  to  Chelsea, 
for  though  a  man's  eyes  may  be  fixed  on  the  stars, 
his  feet  cannot  take  him  there,  and  Chelsea  seemed  to 
them  the  best  alternative.  He  was  not  alone  upon 
this  journey  for  many  another  man  was  going  there, 
and  many  a  man  had  been  and  was  coming  now 
away,  and  the  streets  were  the  one  long  streaming 
crowd  of  the  summer  afternoon.  And  the  men  he  met 
looked  at  Gregory,  and  Gregory  looked  at  them,  and 
neither  saw  the  other,  for  so  it  is  written  of  men,  lest 
they  pay  attention  to  cares  that  are  not  their  own. 
The  sun  that  scorched  his  face  fell  on  their  backs, 
the  breeze  that  cooled  his  back  blew  on  their  cheeks. 
For  the  careless  world,  too,  was  on  its  way,  along  the 
pavement  of  the  universe,  one  of  millions  going  to 
Chelsea,  meeting  millions  coming  away.  .  .  . 

"Mrs.  Bellew  at  home!" 

He  went  into  a  room  fifteen  feet  square  and  per- 
haps ten  high,  with  a  sulky  canary  in  a  small  gilt 
cage,  an  upright  piano  with  an  open  operatic  score, 
a  sofa  with  piled-up  cushions,  and  on  it  a  woman 
with  a  flushed  and  sullen  face  whose  elbows  were 
resting  on  her  knees,  whose  chin  was  resting  on  her 
hand,  whose  gaze  was  fixed  on  nothing.  It  was  a 
room  of  that  size  with  all  these  things,  but  Gregop^ 
took  into  it  with  him  something  that  made  it  all 


2/2  The  Country  House 

seem  different  to  Gregory.  He  sat  down  by  the 
window  with  his  eyes  carefully  averted,  and  spoke  in 
soft  tones  broken  by  something  that  sounded  like 
emotion.  He  began  by  telling  her  of  his  woman  with 
the  morphia  habit,  and  then  he  told  her  that  he  knew 
everything.  When  he  had  said  this,  he  looked  out 
of  the  window,  where  builders  had  left  by  inadvertence 
a  narrow  strip  of  sky.  And  thus  he  avoided  seeing 
the  look  on  her  face,  contemptuous,  impatient,  as 
though  she  were  thinking:  "You  are  a  good  fellow, 
Gregory,  but  for  Heaven's  sake  do  see  things  for  once 
as  they  are!  I  have  had  enough  of  it."  And  he 
avoided  seeing  her  stretch  her  arms  out  and  spread 
the  fingers,  as  an  angry  cat  will  stretch  and  spread 
its  toes.  He  told  her  that  he  did  not  want  to  worry 
her,  but  that  when  she  wanted  him  for  anything  she 
must  send  for  him — he  was  always  there;  and  he 
looked  at  her  feet,  so  that  he  did  not  see  her  lip  curl. 
He  told  her  that  she  would  always  be  the  same  to 
him.,  and  he  asked  her  to  believe  that.  He  did  not 
see  the  smile  which  never  left  her  lips  again  while 
he  was  there — the  smile  he  could  not  read,  because 
it  was  the  smile  of  life,  and  of  a  woman  that  he  did 
not  understand.  But  he  did  see  on  that  sofa  a 
beautiful  creature  for  whom  he  had  longed  for  years, 
and  so  he  went  away,  and  left  her  standing  at  the 
door  with  her  teeth  fastened  on  her  lip.  And  since 
with  him  Gregory  took  his  eyes,  he  did  not  see  her 
reseated  on  the  sofa,  just  as  she  had  been  before  he 
came  in,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  in  her 
hand,  her  moody  eyes  like  those  of  a  gambler  staring 
into  the  distance.     .     .     . 

Tn  the  streets  of  tall  houses  leading  away  from 
Chelsea  wer^  many  men,  some,  like  Gregory,  hungry 


Gregory  Looks  at  the  Sky        273 

for  love,  and  some  hungry  for  bread — ^men  in  twos 
and  threes,  in  crowds,  or  by  themselves,  some  with 
their  eyes  on  the  ground,  some  with  their  eyes  level, 
some  with  their  eyes  on  the  sky,  but  all  with  courage 
and  loyalty  of  one  poor  kind  or  another  in  their 
hearts.  For  by  courage  and  loyalty  alone  it  is 
written  that  man  shall  live,  whether  he  goes  to 
Chelsea  or  whether  he  comes  away.  Of  all  these 
men.  not  one  but  would  have  smiled  to  hear  Gregory 
saying  to  himself:  "She  will  always  be  the  same  to 
me!  She  will  always  be  the  same  to  me ! "  And  not 
one  that  would  have  grinned.  .  .  . 

It  was  getting  on  for  the  Stoics'  dinner  hour  when 
Gregory  found  himself  in  Piccadilly,  and,  Stoic  after 
Stoic,  they  were  getting  out  of  cabs  and  passing  the 
club  doors.  The  poor  fellows  had  been  working  hard 
all  day  on  the  race-course,  the  cricket- ground,'  at 
Hurlingham,  or  in  the  Park;  some  had  been  to  the 
Royal  Academy,  and  on  their  faces  was  a  pleasant 
look:  "Ah,  God  is  good — ^we  can  rest  at  last!"  And 
many  of  them  had  had  no  lunch,  hoping  to  keep  their 
weights  down,  and  many  who  had  lunched  had  not 
done  themselves  as  well  as  might  be  hoped,  and  some 
had  done  themselves  too  well;  but  in  all  their  hearts 
the  trust  burned  bright  that  they  might  do  them- 
selves better  at  dinner,  for  their  God  was  good,  and 
dwelt  between  the  kitchen  and  the  cellar  of  the  Stoics' 
Club.  And  all — ^for  all  had  poetry  in  their  souls — 
looked  forward  to  those  hours  in  paradise  when,  with 
cigars  between  their  lips,  good  wine  below,  they  might 
dream  the  daily  dream  that  comes  to  all  true  Stoics 
for  about  fifteen  shillings  or  even  less,  all  told. 

From  a  little  back  slum,  within  two  stones'  throw 
of  the  god  of  the  Stoics  Club,  there  had  come  out 


274  The  Country  House 

two  seamstresses  to  take  the  air;  one  was  in  con- 
sumption, having  neglected  to  earn  enough  to  feed 
herself  properly  for  some  years  past,  and  the  other 
looked  as  if  she  would  be  in  consumption  shortly, 
for  the  same  reason.  They  stood  on  the  pavement, 
watching  the  cabs  drive  up.  Some  of  the  Stoics 
saw  them  and  thought:  "Poor  girls:  they  look  awfully 
bad. "  Three  or  four  said  to  themselves :  "  It  ought  n't 
to  be  allowed.  I  mean,  it  's  so  painful  to  see;  and 
it 's  not  as  if  one  could  do  anything.  They  're  not 
beggars,  don't  you  know,  and  so  what  can  one 
do?" 

But  most  of  the  Stoics  did  not  look  at  them  at  all, 
feeling  thai  their  soft  hearts  could  not  stand  these 
painful  sights,  and  anxious  not  to  spoil  their  dinners. 
Gregory  did  not  see  them  either,  for  it  so  happened 
that  he  was  looking  at  the  sky,  and  just  then  the 
two  girls  crossed  the  road  and  were  lost  among  the 
passers-by,  for  they  were  not  dogs,  who  could  smell 
out  the  kind  of  man  he  was. 

"Mr.  Pendyce  is  in  the  club;  I  will  send  your  name 
up,  sir."  And  rolling  a  little,  as  though  Gregory's 
name  were  heavy,  the  porter  gave  it  to  the  boy,  who 
went  away  with  it. 

Gregory  stood  by  the  empty  hearth  and  waited* 
and  while  he  waited  nothing  struck  him  at  all,  for 
the  Stoics  seemed  very  natural,  just  mere  men  like 
himself,  except  that  their  clothes  were  better,  which 
made  him  think:  "I  shouldn't  «are  to  belong  here 
and  have  to  dress  for  dinner  every  night. " 

**  Mr.  Pendyce  is  very  sorry,  sir,  but  he's  engaged. " 

Gregory  bit  his  lip,  said  "Thank  you,"  and  went 
away. 

"That's  all  Margery  wants,"  he  thought;    "the 


Gregory  Looks  at  the  Sky         275 

rest  IS  nothing  to  me,"  and,  getting  on  a  bus,  he 
fixed  his  eyes  once  more  on  the  sky. 

But  George  was  not  engaged.  Like  a  wounded 
animal  taking  its  hurt  for  refuge  to  its  lair,  he  sat 
in  his  favourite  window  overlooking  Piccadilly.  He 
sat  there  as  though  youth  had  left  him,  unmoving, 
never  lifting  his  eyes.  In  his  stubborn  mind  a  wheel 
seemed  turning,  grinding  out  his  memories  to  the 
last  grain.  And  Stoics,  who  could  not  bear  to  see 
a  man  sit  thus  throughout  that  sacred  hour,  came  up 
from  time  to  time. 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  dine,  Pendyce?" 

Dumb  brutes  tell  no  one  of  their  pains;  the  law  is 
silence.  So  with  George.  And  as  each  Stoic  came 
up.  he  only  set  his  teeth  and  said: 

"Presently,  old  chap," 


CHAPTER  VII 

TOUR  WITH  THE  SPANIEL  JOHN 

NOW  the  spaniel  John — ^whose  habit  it  was  to 
smell  of  leather  and  baked  biscuits  when  he 
rose  from  a  night's  sleep — ^was  in  disgrace  that 
Thursday.  Into  his  long  and  narrow  head  it  took 
time  for  any  new  idea  to  enter,  and  not  till  forty 
hours  after  Mrs.  Pendyce  had  gone  did  he  recognise 
fully  that  something  definite  had  happened  to  his 
master.  During  the  agitated  minutes  that  this  con- 
viction took  in  forming,  he  worked  hard.  Taking 
two  and  a  half  brace  of  his  master's  shoes  and  slippers 
and  placing  them  in  unaccustomed  spots,  he  lay  on 
them  one  by  one  till  they  were  warm,  then  left  them 
for  some  bird  or  other  to  hatch  out,  and  returned  to 
Mr.  Pendyce's  door.  It  was  for  all  this  that  the 
Squire  said,  "John!"  several  times,  and  threatened 
him  with  a  razor  strop.  And  partly  because  he  could 
not  bear  to  leave  his  master  for  a  single  second — the 
scolding  had  made  him  love  him  so — ^and  partly  be- 
cause of  that  new  idea,  which  let  him  have  no  peace, 
he  lay  in  the  hall  waiting. 

Having  once  in  his  hot  youth  inadvertently  fol- 
lowed the  Squire's  horse,  he  could  never  be  induced 
to  follow  it  again.  He  both  personally  disliked 
this  needlessly  large  and  swift  form  of  animal,  and 
suspected  it  of  designs  upon  his  master;  for  when 
the  creature  had  taken  his  master  up,  there  was 
not  a  smell  of  him  left  anywhere — not  a  whiff  of  that 

0.76 


I 


Tour  with  the  Spaniel  John       277 

pleasant  scent  that  so  endeared  him  to  the  heart.  As 
soon,  therefore,  ^as  the  horse  appeared,  the  spaniel 
John  would  lie  down  on  his  stomach  with  his  forepaws 
close  to  his  nose,  and  his  nose  close  to  the  ground; 
nor  until  the  animal  vanished  could  he  be  induced  to 
abandon  an  attitude  in  which  he  resembled  a  couch- 
ing Sphinx. 

But  this  afternoon,  with  his  tail  down,  his  lips 
pouting,  his  shoulders  making  heavy  work  of  it,  his 
nose  lifted  in  deprecation  of  that  ridiculous  and 
unnecessary  plane  on  which  his  master  sat,  he  fol- 
lowed at  a  measured  distance.  In  such- wise  aforetime 
the  village  had  followed  the  Squire  and  Mr.  Barter 
when  they  introduced  into  it  its  one  and  only  drain. 

Mr.  Pendyce  rode  slowly;  his  feet,  in  their  well- 
blacked  boots,  his  nervous  legs  in  Bedford  cord  and 
mahogany- coloured  leggings,  moved  in  rhyme  to  the 
horse's  trot.  A  long-tailed  coat  fell  clean  and  full 
over  his  thighs;  his  back  and  shoulders  were  a  wee 
bit  bent  to  lessen  motion,  and  above  his  neat  white 
stock  under  a  grey  bowler  hat  his  lean,  grey-w^hiskered 
and  moustachioed  face,  with  harassed  eyes,  was 
preoccupied  and  sad.  His  horse,  a  brown  blood 
mare,  ambled  lazily,  head  raking  forward,  and  bang 
tail  floating  outward  from  her  hocks.  And  so,  in  the 
June  sunshine,  they  went,  all  three,  along  the  leafy 
lane  to  Worsted  Scotton.  .  .  . 

On  Tuesday,  the  day  that  Mrs.  Pendyce  had  left, 
the  Squire  had  come  in  later  than  usual,  for  he  felt 
that  after  their  difference  of  the  night  before,  a  little 
coolness  -^ould  no  her  do  harm.  The  first  hour  of 
discovery  had  been  as  one  confused  and  angry  minute, 
ending  in  a  burst  of  nerves  and  the  telegram  to 
General    Pendyce.     He   took   the   telegram   himself, 


278  The  Country  House 

returning  from  the  village  with  his  head  down,  a 
sudden  prey  to  a  feeling  of  shame — ^an  odd  and  terrible 
feeling  that  he  never  remembered  to  have  felt  before, 
a  sort  of  fear  of  his  fellow-creatures.  He  would  have 
chosen  a  secret  way,  but  there  was  none,  only  the 
high  road,  or  the  path  across  the  village  green,  and 
through  the  churchyard  to  his  paddocks.  An  old 
cottager  was  standing  af  the  turnstile,  and  the  Squire 
made  for  him  with  his  head  down  as  a  bull  makes 
for  a  fence.  He  had  meant  to  pass  in  silence,  but 
between  him  and  this  old  broken  husbandman  there 
was  a  bond  forged  by  the  ages.  Had  it  meant  death, 
Mr.  Pendyce  could  not  have  passed  one  whose  fathers 
had  toiled  for  his  fathers,  eaten  his  fathers'  bread, 
died  with  his  fathers,  without  a  word  and  a  movement 
of  his  hand. 

"Evenin*,  Squire;  naice  evenin'.  Faine  weather 
fur  th'  hay!" 

The  voice  was  warped  and  wavery. 

"This  is  my  Squire,"  it  seemed  to  say,  "whatever 
ther'  be  agin  him!" 

Mr.  Pendyce's  hand  went  up  to  his  hat. 

**Evenin',  Hermon.  Aye,  fine  weather  for  the 
hay!  Mrs.  Pendyce  has  gone  up  to  London.  We 
young  bachelors,  ha!" 

He  passed  on. 

Not  until  he  had  gone  some  way  did  he  perceive 
why  he  had  made  that  announcement.  It  was  simply, 
because  he  must  tell  every  one,  every  one;  then  no 
one  could  be  astonished. 

He  hurried  on  to  the  house  to  cfress  in  time  for 
dinner,  and  show  all,  that  nothing  was  amiss... 
Seven  courses  would  have  been  served  him  had  the 
sky  fallen;  but  he  ate  little,  and  drank  more  claret; 


Tour  with  the  Spaniel  John       279 

than  was  his  wont.  After  dinner  he  sat  in  his  study 
with  the  windows  open,  and  in  the  mingled  day  and 
lamp  light  read  his  wife's  letter  over  again.  As  it 
was  with  the  spaniel  John,  so  with  his  master — a  new 
idea  penetrated  but  slowly  into  his  long  and  narrow 
head. 

She  was  cracked  about  George;  she  did  not  know 
what  she  was  doing;  would  soon  come  to  her  senses. 
It  was  not  for  him  to  take  any  steps.  What  steps,  in- 
deed, could  he  take  without  confessing  that  Horace 
Pendyce  had  gone  too  far,  that  Horace  Pendyce  was 
in  the  wrong?  That  had  never  been  his  habit,  and 
he  could  not  alter  now.  If  she  and  George  chose 
to  be  stubborn,  they  must  take  the  consequences,  and 
fend  for  themselves. 

In  the  silence  and  the  lamplight,  growing  mellower 
each  minute  under  the  green  silk  shade,  he  sat  con- 
fusedly thinking  of  the  past.  And  in  that  dumb 
reverie,  as  though  of  fixed  malice,  there  came  to  him 
no  memories  that  were  not  pleasant,  no  images  that 
were  not  fair.  He  tried  to  think  of  her  unkindly,  he 
tried  to  paint  her  black;  but  with  the  perversity 
born  into  the  world  when  he  was  born,  to  die  when 
he  was  dead,  she  came  to  him  softly,  like  the  ghost 
of  gentleness,  to  haunt  his  fancy.  She  came  to  him 
smelling  of  sweet  scents,  with  a  slight  rustling  of  silk, 
and  the  sound  of  her  expectant  voice,  saying,  "Yes, 
dear?"  as  though  she  were  not  bored.  He  remem- 
bered when  he  brought  her  first  to  Worsted  Skeynes 
thirty-four  years  ago,  "  That  timid,  and  like  a  rose, 
but  a  lady  every  hinch,  the  love!"  as  his  old  nurse 
had  said. 

He  remembered  her  when  George  was  bom,  like 
wax  for  whiteness  and  transparency,  with  eyes  that 


28o  The  Country  House 

were  all  pupils,  and  a  hovering  smile.  So  many- 
other  times  he  remembered  her  throughout  those 
years,  but  never  as  a  woman  faded,  old,  never  as  a 
woman  of  the  past.  Now  that  he  had  not  got  her, 
for  the  first  time  Mr.  Pendyce  realised  that  she  had 
not  grown  old,  that  she  was  still  to  him  "timid,  and 
like  a  rose,  but  a  lady  every  hinch,  the  love!"  And 
he  could  not  bear  this  thought;  it  made  him  feel 
so  miserable  and  lonely  in  the  lamplight,  with  the 
grey  moths  hovering  round,  and  the  spaniel  John 
asleep  upon  his  foot. 

So,  taking  his  candle,  he  went  up  to  bed.  The 
doors  that  barred  away  the  servants'  wing  were 
closed.  In  all  the  great  remaining  space  of  house 
his  was  the  only  candle,  the  only  sounding  footstep. 
Slowly  he  mounted  as  he  had  mounted  many  thou- 
sand times,  but  never  once  like  this,  and  behind  him, 
like  a  shadow,  mounted  the  spaniel  John. 

And  She  that  knows  the  hearts  of  men  and  dogs, 
the  Mother  from  whom  all  things  come,  to  whom 
they  all  go  home,  was  watching,  and  presently,  when 
when  they  were  laid,  the  one  in  his  deserted' bed, 
the  other  on  blue  linen,  propped  against  the  door, 
She  gathered  them  to  sleep. 

But  Wednesday  came,  and  with  it  Wednesday's 
duties.  They  who  have  passed  the  windows  of  the 
Stoics'  Club  and  seen  the  Stoics  sitting  there  have 
haunting  visions  of  the  idle  landed  classes.  These 
visions  will  not  let  them  sleep,  will  not  let  their 
tongues  to  cease  from  bitterness,  for  they  so  long  to 
lead  that  "idle"  life  themselves.  But  though  in  a 
misty  land  illusions  be  our  cherished  lot,  that  we 
may  all  think  falsely  of  our  neighbours  and  enjoy 
ourselves,  the  word  "idle"  is  not  the  word  at  all. 


Tour  with  the  Spaniel  John       281 

Many  and  heavy  tasks  weighed  on  the  Squire  at 
Worsted  Skeynes.  There  was  the  visit  to  the  stables 
to  decide  as  to  firing  Beldame's  hock,  or  selling  the 
new  bay  horse  because  he  did  not  draw  men  fast 
enough,  and  the  vexed  question  of  Bruggan's  oats 
or  Beal's,  talked  out  with  Benson,  in  a  leather  belt 
and  flannel  shirt-sleeves,  like  a  corpulent,  white- 
whiskered  boy.  Then  the  long  sitting  in  the  study 
with  memorandums  and  accounts,  all  needing  care, 
lest  So-and-so  should  give  too  little  for  too  little,  or 
too  little  for  too  much ;  and  the  smart  walk  across  to 
Jarvis,  the  head  keeper,  to  ask  after  the  health  of  the 
new  Hungarian  bird,  or  discuss  a  scheme  whereby  in 
the  last  drive  so  many  of  those  creatures  he  had 
nurtured  from  their  youth  up  might  be  deterred  from 
flying  over  to  his  friend  Lord  Quarryman.  And 
this  took  long,  for  Jarvis's  feelings  forced  him  to  say 
six  times,  "Well  Mr.  Pendyce,  sir,  what  I  say  is  we 
did  n't  oughter  lose  s'  many  birds  in  that  last  drive," 
and  Mr.  Pendyce  to  answer:  "No,  Jarvis,  certainly 
not.  Well,  what  do  you  suggest?"  And  that  other 
grievous  question — how  to  get  plenty  of  pheasants 
and  plenty  of  foxes  to  dwell  together  in  perfect  har- 
mony— discussed  with  endless  sympathy,  for,  as  the 
Squire  would  say,  **I  'd  never  have  a  keeper  that  I 
could  n  't  trust  with  foxes." 

Then  back  to  a  sparing  lunch,  or  perhaps  no  lunch 
at  all,  that  he  might  keep  fit  and  hard;  and  out  again 
at  once  on  horseback  or  on  foot  to  the  home  farm  or 
further,  as  need  might  take  him,  and  a  long  afternoon, 
with  eyes  fixed  on  the  ribs  of  bullocks,  the  colour 
of  swedes,  the  surfaces  of  walls  or  gates  or  fences. 

Then  home  again  to  tea  and  to  the  Times,  which 
had  as  yet  received  but  fleeting  glances,  with  close 


282  The  Country  House 

attention  to  all  those  Parliamentary  measures  threat- 
ening, remotely,  the  existing  state  of  things,  except, 
of  course,  that  future  tax  on  wheat  so  needful  to  the 
betterment  of  Worsted  Skeynes.  There  were  oc- 
casions, too,  when  they  brought  him  tramps  to  deal 
with,  to  whom  his  one  remark  would  be:  "Hold  out 
your  hands,  my  man, "  which,  being  found  unwarped 
by  honest  toil,  were  promptly  sent  to  gaol.  When 
found  so  warped,  Mr.  Pendyce  was  at  a  loss,  and 
would  walk  up  and  down,  earnestly  trying  to  discover 
what  his  duty  was  to  them.  There  were  days,  too, 
almost  entirely  occupied  by  sessions,  when  many 
classes  of  offenders  came  before  him,  to  whom  he 
meted  justice  according  to  the  heinousness  of  the 
offence,  from  poaching  at  the  top  down  and  down  to 
wife-beating  at  the  bottom;  for,  though  a  humane 
man,  tradition  did  not  suffer  him  to  look  on  this 
form  of  sport  as  really  criminal — at  any  rate,  not  in 
the  country. 

It  was  true  that  all  these  matters  could  have  been 
settled  in  a  fraction  of  the  time  by  a  young  and 
trained  intelligence,  but  this  would  have  wronged 
tradition,  disturbed  the  Squire's  settled  conviction 
that  he  was  doing  his  duty,  and  given  cause  for 
slanderous  tongues  to  hint  at  idleness.  And  though, 
further,  it  was  true  that  all  this  daily  labour  was 
devoted  directly  or  indirectly  to  interests  of  his  own, 
what  was  that  but  doing  his  duty  to  the  country  and 
asserting  the  prerogative  of  every  Englishman  at  all 
costs  to  be  provincial? 

But  on  this  Wednesday  the  flavour  of  the  dish  was 
gone.  To  be  alone  amongst  his  acres,  quite  alone — 
to  have  no  one  to  care  whether  he  did  anything  at 
all,  no  one  to  whom  he  might  confide  that  Beldame's 


Tour  with  the  Spaniel  John     283 

hock  was  to  be  fired,  that  Peacock  was  asking  for 
more  gates,  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear. 
He  would  have  wired  to  the  girls  to  come  home,  but 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  face  their  questions. 
Gerald  was  at  Gib!  George — George  was  no  son  of 
his! — and  his  pride  forbade  him  to  write  to  her  who 
had  left  him  thus  to  solitude  and  shame.  For  deep 
down  below  his  stubborn  anger  it  was  shame  that 
the  Squire  felt — shame  that  he  should  have  to  shun 
his  neighbours,  lest  they  should  ask  him  questions 
which,  for  his  own  good  name  and  his  own  pride,  he 
must  answer  with  a  lie;  shame  that  he  should  not  be 
master  in  his  own  house — still  more,  shame  that 
any  one  should  see  that  he  was  not.  To  be  sure,  he 
did  not  know  that  he  felt  shame,  being  unused  to 
introspection,  ignorant  of  the  very  meaning  of  the 
word.  For  he  always  meditated  concretely,  as, 
for  instance,  when  he  looked  up  and  did  not  see  his 
wife  at  breakfast,  but  saw  Bester  making  coffee,  he 
thought:  "That  fellow  knows  all  about  it,  I  should  n't 
wonder! "  and  he  felt  angry  for  thinking  that.  When 
he  saw  Mr.  Barter  coming  down  the  drive  he  thought : 
"Confound  it!  I  can't  meet  him,"  and  slipped  out, 
and  felt  angry  that  he  had  thus  avoided  him.  When 
in  the  Scotch  garden  he  came  on  Jackman  syringing 
the  rose-trees,  he  said  to  him:  "Your  mistress  has 
gone  to  London,"  and  abruptly  turned  away,  angry 
that  he  had  been  obliged  by  a  mysterious  impulse 
to  tell  him  that. 

So  it  was,  all  through  that  long,  sad  day,  and  the 
only  thing  that  gave  him  comfort  was  to  score  through, 
in  the  draft  of  his  will,  bequests  to  his  eldest  son,  and 
busy  himself  over  drafting  a  clause  to  take  their 
place. 


284  The  Country  House 

"Forasmuch  as  my  eldest  son,  George  Hubert,  has 
by  conduct  unbecoming  to  a  gentleman  and  a  Pen- 
dyce,  proved  himself  unworthy  of  my  confidence, 
and  forasmuch  as  to  my  regret  I  am  unable  to  cut  the 
entail  of  my  estate,  I  hereby  declare  that  he  shall 
in  no  way  participate  in  any  division  of  my  other 
property  or  of  my  personal  effects,  conscientiously 
believing  that  it  is  my  duty  so  to  do  in  the  interests 
of  my  family  and  of  the  country,  and  I  make  this 
declaration  without  anger. " 

For,  all  the  anger  that  he  was  balked  of  feeling 
against  his  wife,  because  he  missed  her  so,  was  added 
to  that  already  felt  against  his  son. 

By  the  last  post  came  a  letter  from  General  Pendyce. 
He  opened  it  with  fingers  as  shaky  as  his  brother's 
writing. 

Army  and  Navy  Club. 
**Dear  Horace, 

*'What  the  deuce  and  all  made  you  send  that 
telegram?  It  spoiled  my  breakfast,  and  sent  me  off 
in  a  tearing  hurry,  to  find  Margery  perfectly  well. 
If  she'd  been  seedy  or  anything  I  should  have  been 
delighted,  but  there  she  was,  busy  about  her  dresses 
and  what  not,  and  I  dare  say  she  thought  me  a 
lunatic  for  coming  at  that  time  in  the  morning.  You 
should  n't  get  into  the  habit  of  sending  telegrams. 
A  telegram  is  a  thing  that  means  something — at 
least,  I  've  always  thought  so.  I  met  George  coming 
away  from  her  in  a  deuce  of  a  hurry.  I  can't  write 
any  more  now.  I  'm  just  going  to  have  my  lunch. 
"  Your  affectionate  brother, 

"Charles  Pendyce.*" 


Tour  with  the  Spaniel  John        285 

She  was  well.  She  had  been  seeing  George.  With 
a  hardened  heart  the  Squire  went  up  to  bed. 

And  Wednesday  came  to  an  end.   .  .  . 

And  so  on  the  Thursday  afternoon  the  brown 
blood  mare  carried  Mr.  Pendyce  along  the  lane, 
followed  by  the  spaniel  John.  They  passed  the  Firs, 
where  Bellew  lived,  and,  bending  sharply  to  the  right, 
began  to  mount  towards  the  Common ;  and  with  them 
mounted  the  image  of  that  fellow  who  was  at  the 
bottom  of  it  all — an  image  that  ever  haunted  the 
Squire's  mind  nowadays;  a  ghost,  high- shouldered, 
with  little  burning  eyes,  clipped  red  moustaches, 
thin  bowed  legs.  A  plague  spot  on  that  system 
which  he  loved,  a  whipping- post  to  heredity,  a  scourge 
like  Attila  the  Hun;  a  sort  of  damnable  caricature  of 
all  that  a  country  gentleman  should  be — of  his  love 
of  sport  and  open  air,  of  his  ** hardness"  and  his 
pluck;  of  his  powers  of  knowing  his  own  mind,  and 
taking  his  liquor  like  a  man;  of  his  creed,  now  out 
of  date,  of  gallantry.  Yes — a  kind  of  cursed  bogey 
of  a  man,  a  spectral  follower  of  the  hounds,  a  de- 
sperate character — a  man  that  in  the  old  days  some 
one  would  have  shot;  a  drinking,  white- faced  devil 
that  despised  Horace  Pendyce,  that  Horace  Pendyce 
hated,  yet  could  not  quite  despise.  "Always  one 
like  that  in  a  hunting  country!"  A  black  dog  on 
the  shoulders  of  his  order.  Post  equitem  sedet  Jaspar 
Bellew! 

The  Squire  came  out  on  the  top  of  the  rise,  and 
all  Worsted  Scotton  was  in  sight.  It  was  a  sandy 
stretch  of  broom  and  gorse  and  heather,  with  a  few 
Scotch  firs;  it  had  no  value  at  all,  and  he  longed  for 
it,  as  a  boy  might  long  for  the  bite  some  one  else  had 
snatched  out  of  his  apple.     It  distressed  him  lying 


2^6  The  Country  House 

there,  his  and  yet  not  his,  like  a  wife  that  was  no 
wife — as  though  Fortune  were  enjoying  her  at  his 
expense.  Thus  was  he  deprived  of  the  fullness  of  his 
mental  image ;  for  as  with  all  men,  so  with  the  Squire, 
that  which  he  loved  and  owned  took  definite  form — • 
a  something  that  he  saw.  Whenever  the  words 
"Worsted  Skeynes"  were  in  his  mind — and  that  was 
almost  always — there  rose  before  him  an  image 
defined  and  concrete,  however  indescribable;  and 
whatever  this  image  was,  he  knew  that  Worsted 
Scotton  spoiled  it.  It  was  true  that  he  could  not 
think  of  any  use  to  which  to  put  the  Common,  but  he 
felt  deeply  that  it  was  pure  dog-in-the-mangerism 
of  the  cottagers,  and  this  he  could  not  stand.  Not 
one  beast  in  two  years  had  fattened  on  its  barrenness. 
Three  old  donkeys  alone  eked  out  the  remnants  of 
their  days.  A  bundle  of  firewood  or  old  bracken, 
a  few  peat  sods  from  one  especial  corner,  were  all  the 
selfish  peasants  gathered.  But  the  cottagers  were 
no  great  matter — ^he  could  soon  have  settled  them; 
it  was  that  fellow  Peacock  whom  he  could  not  settle, 
just  because  he  happened  to  abut  on  the  Common, 
and  his  fathers  had  been  nasty  before  him.  Mr. 
Pendyce  rode  round  looking  at  the  fence  his  father 
had  put  up,  until  he  came  to  the  portion  that  Pea- 
cock's father  had  pulled  down;  and  here,  by  a  strange 
fatality — such  as  will  happen  even  in  printed  records — • 
— he  came  on  Peacock  himself  standing  in  the  gap,  as 
though  he  had  foreseen  this  visit  of  the  Squire's.  The 
mare  stopped  of  her  own  accord,  the  spaniel  John 
at  a  measured  distance  lay  down  to  think,  and  all 
those  yards  away  he  could  be  heard  doing  it,  and  now 
and  then  swallowing  his  tongue. 

P^cock  stood  with   his  hands  in  his  breeches' 


Tour  with  the  Spaniel  John        287 

pockets.  An  old  straw  hat  was  on  his  head,  his 
little  eyes  were  turned  towards  the  ground;  and  his 
cob,  which  he  had  tied  to  what  his  father  had  left 
standing  of  the  fence,  had  his  eyes,  too,  turned 
towards  the  ground,  for  he  was  eating  grass.  Mr. 
Pendyce's  fight  with  his  burning  stable  had  stuck  in 
the  farmer's  ''gizzard"  ever  since.  He  felt  that  he 
was  forgetting  it  day  by  day — would  soon  forget  it 
altogether.  He  felt  the  old  sacred  doubts  inherited 
from  his  fathers  rising  every  hour  within  him.  And  so 
he  h4d  come  up  to  see  what  looking  at  the  gap  would 
do  for  his  sense  of  gratitude.  At  sight  of  the  Squire 
his  little  eyes  turned  here  and  there,  as  a  pig's  eyes 
turn  when  it  receives  a  blow  behind.  That  Mr. 
Peiidyce  should  have  chosen  this  moment  to  come 
up  was  as  though  Providence,  that  knoweth  all 
things,  knew  the  natural  thing  for  Mr.  Pendyce  to  do. 

"Afternoon,  Squire.  Dry  weather;  rain 's  badly 
wanted.     I  '11  get  no  feed  if  this  goes  on. " 

Mr.  Pendyce  answered: 

**  Afternoon,  Peacock.  Why,  your  fields  are  first- 
rate  for  grass." 

They  hastily  turned  their  eyes  away,  for  at  that 
moment  they  could  not  bear  to  see  each  other. 

There  was  a  silence;  then  Peacock  said: 

"What  about  those  gates  of  mine.  Squire?"  and 
his  voice  quavered,  as  though  gratitude  might  yet 
get  the  better  of  him. 

The  Squire's  irritable  glance  swept  over  the  un- 
fenced  space  to  right  and  left,  and  the  thought  flashed 
through  his  mind: 

"Suppose  I  were  to  give  the  beggar  those  gates, 
would  he — ^would  he  let  me  enclose  the  Scotton 
again?" 


288  The  Country  House 

He  looked  at  that  square,  ll^arded  man,  and  the 
infallible  instinct,  christened  ^o  wickedly  by  Mr. 
Paramor,  guided  him. 

**  What  's  wrong  with  your  gates,  man,  I  should  like 
to  know?" 

Peacock  looked  at  him  full  this  time;  there  was  no 
longer  any  quaver  in  his  voice,  but  a  sort  of  rough 
good  humour. 

"  Wy,  the  'arf  o'  them  *s  as  rotten  as  match-wood!" 
he  said,  and  he  took  a  breath  of  relief,  for  he  knew 
that  gratitude  was  dead  within  his  soul. 

"Well,  I  wish  mine  at  the  home  farm  were  half 
as  good.  Come,  John!"  and,  touching  the  mare  with 
his  heel,  Mr.  Pendyce  turned;  but  before  he  had  gone 
a  dozen  paces  he  was  back. 

"Mrs.  Peacock  well,  I  hope?  Mrs.  Pendyce  has 
gone  up  to  London." 

And  touching  his  hat,  without  waiting  for  Pea- 
cock's answer,  he  rode  away.  He  took  the  lane 
past  Peacock's  farm  across  the  home  paddocks, 
emerging  on  the  cricket-ground,  a  field  of  his  own 
which  he  had  caused  to  be  converted. 

The  return  match  with  Coldingham  was  going  on, 
and,  motionless  on  his  horse,  the  Squire  stopped  to 
watch.  A  tall  figure  in  the  "long  field"  came  lei- 
surely towards  him.  It  was  the  Hon.  Geoffrey  Win- 
low.  Mr.  Pendyce  subdued  an  impulse  to  turn  the 
mare  and  ride  away. 

"  We  're  going  to  give  you  a  licking.  Squire !  How  *s 
Mrs.  Pendyce?     My  wife  sent  her  love." 

On  the  Squire's  face  in  the  full  sun  was  more  than 
the  sun  *s  flush. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  "she  's  very  well.  She  's  gone 
up  to  London." 


Tour  with  the  Spaniel  John        289 

"And  are  n  't  yo^going  up  ygurself  this  season?" 

The  Squire  crossed  those  leisurely  eyes  with  his 
own. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  he  said  slowly. 

The  Hon.  Geoffrey  returned  to  his  duties. 

**  We  got  poor  old  Barter  for  a  *  blob ' ! "  he  said  ovet 
his  shoulder. 

The  Squire  became  aware  that  Mr.  Barter  was 
approaching  from  behind. 

"You  see  that  left-hand  fellow?"  he  said,  pouting. 
"Just  watch  his  foot.  D'  you  mean  to  say  that 
wasn't  a  no-ball?  He  bowled  me  with  a  no-ball. 
He  's  a  rank  no-baller.  That  fellow  Locke 's  no 
more  an  umpire  than " 

He  stopped  and  looked  earnestly  at  the  bowler. 

The  Squire  did  not  answer,  sitting  on  his  mare  as 
though  carved  in  stone.     Suddenly  his  throat  clicked. 

"How's  your  wife?"  he  said.  "Mrs.  Pendyce 
would  have  come  to  see  her,  but — but  she  *s  gone 
up  to  London." 

The  Rector  did  not  turn  his  head. 

"My  wife?  Oh,  going  on  first-rate.  There's 
another!     I  say,  Winlow,  this  is  too  bad!" 

The  Hon.  Geoffrey's  pleasant  voice  was  heard. 

"Please  not  to  speak  to  the  man  at  the  wheel!" 

The  Squire  turned  the  mare  and  rode  away;  and 
the  spaniel  John,  who  had  been  watching  from  a 
measured  distance,  followed  after,  his  tongue  lolling 
from  his  mouth. 

The  Squire  turned  through  a  gate  down  the  main 
aisle  of  the  home  covert,  and  the  nose  and  the  tail 
of  the  spaniel  John,  who  scented  creatures  to  the 
left  and  right,  were  in  perpetual  motion.  It  was 
cool  in  there.  The  June  foliage  made  one  long 
19  ^.^ 


290  The  Country  House 

colonnade,  broken  by  a  winding  river  of  sky.  Among 
the  oaks  and  hazels,  the  beeches  and  the  elms,  the 
ghostly  body  of  a  birch-tree  shone  here  and  there, 
captured  by  those  grosser  trees  which  seemed  to 
cluster  round  her,  proud  of  their  prisoner,  loath  to 
let  her  go,  that  subtle  spirit  of  their  wood.  They 
knew  that,  were  she  gone,  their  forest  lady,  wilder 
and  yet  gentler  than  themselves — ^they  would  lose 
credit,  lose  the  grace  and  essence  of  their  corporate 
being. 

The  Squire  dismounted,  tethered  his  horse,  and 
sat  under  one  of  those  birch-trees,  on  the  fallen  body 
of  an  elm.  The  spaniel  John  also  sat  and  loved  him 
with  his  eyes.  And  sitting  there  they  thought  their 
thoughts,  but  their  thoughts  were  different. 

For  under  this  birch-tree  Horace  Pendyce  had 
stood  and  kissed  his  wife  the  very  day  he  brought  her 
home  to  Worsted  Skeynes,  and  though  he  did  not 
see  the  parallel  between  her  and  the  birch-tree  that 
some  poor  imaginative  creature  might  have  drawn, 
yet  was  he  thinking  of  that  long  past  afternoon. 
But  the  spaniel  John  was  not  thinking  of  it;  his 
recollection  was  too  dim,  for  he  had  been  at  that 
time  twenty- eight  years  short  of  being  born. 

Mr.  Pendyce  sat  there  long  with  his  horse  and  with 
his  dog,  and  from  out  the  blackness  of  the  spaniel 
John,  who  was  more  than  less  asleep,  there  shone  at 
times  an  eye  turned  on  his  master  like  some  devoted 
star.  The  sun,  shining,  too,  gilded  the  stem  of  the 
birch- tree.  The  birds  and  beasts  began  their  evening 
stir  all  through  the  undergrowth,  and  rabbits,  popping 
out  into  the  ride,  looked  with  surprise  at  the  spaniel 
John,  and  popped  in  back  again.  They  knew  that 
men  with  horses  had  no  guns,  but  could  not  bring 


Tour  with  the  Spaniel  John         291 

themselves  to  trust  that  black  and  hairy  thing  whose 
nose  so  twitched  whenever  they  appeared.  The 
gnats  came  out  to  dance,  and  at  their  dancing,  every 
sound  and  scent  and  shape  became  the  sounds  and 
scents  and  shapes  of  evening;  and  there  was  evening 
in  the  Squire's  heart. 

Slowly  and  stiffly  he  got  up  from  the  log  and 
mounted  to  ride  home.  It  would  be  just  as  lonely 
when  he  got  there,  but  a  house  is  better  than  a  wood, 
where  the  gnats  dance,  the  birds  and  creatures  stir 
and  stir,  and  shadows  lengthen;  where  the  sun  steals 
upwards  on  the  tree-stems,  and  all  is  careless  of  its 
owner,  Man. 

It  was  past  seven  o'clock  when  he  went  to  his 
study.  There  was  a  lady  standing  at  the  window, 
and  Mr.  Pendyce  said: 

**  I  beg  your  pardon? " 

The  lady  turned;  it  was  his  wife.  The  Squire 
stopped  with  a  hoarse  sound,  and  stood  silent,  cover- 
ing his  eyes  with  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ACUTE  ATTACK  OF **  PENDYCITIS" 

MRS.  PENDYCE  felt  very  faint  as  she  hurried 
away  from  Chelsea.  She  had  passed  through 
hours  of  great  emotion,  and  eaten  nothing. 

Like  sunset  clouds  or  the  colours  in  mother- p'- pearl, 
so  it  is  written,  shall  be  the  moods  of  men — inter- 
woven as  the  threads  of  an  embroidery,  less  certain 
than  an  April  day,  yet  with  a  rhythm  of  their  own 
that  never  fails,  and  no  one  can  quite  scan. 

A  single  cup  of  tea  on  her  way  home,  r,nd  her  spirit 
revived.  It  seemed  suddenly  as  if  there  had  been  a 
great  ado  about  nothing !  As  if  some  one  had  known 
how  stupid  men  could  be,  and  had  been  playing  a  fan- 
tasia on  that  stupidity.  But  this  gaiety  of  spirit  soon 
died  away,  confronted  by  the  problem  of  what  she 
should  do  next. 

She  reached  her  hotel  without  making  a  decision. 
She  sat  down  in  the  reading-room  to  write  to  Gregory, 
and  while  she  sat  there  with  her  pen  in  her  hand  a 
dreadful  temptation  came  over  her  to  say  bitter 
things  to  him,  because  by  not  seeing  people  as  they 
were  he  had  brought  all  this  upon  them.  But  she 
had  so  little  practice  in  saying  bitter  things  that  she 
could  not  think  of  any  that  were  nice  enough,  and 
in  the  end  she  was  obliged  to  leave  them  out.  After 
finishing  and  sending  off  the  note  she  felt  better.  And 
•t  came  to  her  suddenly  that,  if  she  packed  at  once, 


Acute  Attack  of — **Pendycitis"    293 

there  was  just  time  to  catch  the  five- fifty-five  to 
Worsted  Skenes. 

As  in  leaving  her  home,  so  in  returning,  she  fol- 
lowed her  instinct,  and  her  instinct  told  her  to  avoid 
unnecessary  fuss  and  suffering. 

The  decrepit  station  fly,  mouldy  and  smelling  of 
^  stables,  bore  her  almost  lovingly  towards  the  Hall. 
Its  old  driver,  clean-faced,  cheery,  somewhat  like 
a  bird,  drove  her  almost  furiously,  for,  though  he 
knew  nothing,  he  felt  that  two  whole  days  and  half 
a  day  were  quite  long  enough  for  her  to  be  away.  At 
the  lodge  gate  old  Roy,  the  Skye,  was  seated  on  his 
haunches,  and  the  sight  of  him  set  Mrs.  Pendyce 
trembling  as  though  till  then  she  had  not  realised 
that  she  was  coming  home. 

Home!  The  long  narrow  lane  without  a  turning, 
the  mists  and  stillness,  the  driving  rain  and  hot  bright 
afternoons;  the  scents  of  wood  smoke  and  hay  and 
the  scent  of  her  flowers;  the  Squire's  voice,  the  dry 
rattle  of  grass-cutters,  the  barking  of  dogs,  and 
distant  hum  of  threshing;  and  Sunday  sounds — • 
church  bells  and  rooks,  and  Mr.  Barter's  preaching; 
the  tastes  too  of  the  very  dishes!  And  all  these 
scents  and  sounds  and  tastes,  and  the  feel  of  the  air 
to  her  cheeks,  seemed  to  have  been  for  ever  in  the 
past,  and  to  be  going  on  for  ever  in  the  time  to  come. 

She  turned  red  and  white  by  turns,  and  felt  neither 
joy  nor  sadness,  for  in  a  wave  the  old  life  came  over 
her.  She  went  at  once  to  the  study  to  wait  for  her 
husband  to  come  in.  At  the  hoarse  sound  he  made, 
her  heart  beat  fast,  while  old  Roy  and  the  spaniel 
John  growled  gently  at  each  other. 

"John,"  she  murmured,  "aren't  you  glad  to  see 
me,  dear?' 


294  The  Country  House 

The  spaniel  John,  without  moving,  beat  his  tail 
against  his  master's  foot. 

The  Squire  raised  his  head  at  last. 

"Well,  Margery?"  was  all  he  said. 

It  shot  through  her  mind  that  he  looked  older, 
and  very  tired! 

The  dinner- gong  began  to  sound,  and  as  though 
attracted  by  its  long  monotonous  beating,  a  swallow 
flew  in  at  one  of  the  narrow  windows  and  fluttered 
round  the  room.  Mrs.  Pendyce's  eyes  followed  its' 
flight. 

The  Squire  stepped  forward  suddenly  and  took 
her  hand. 

"Don't  run  away  from  me  again,  Margery!"  he 
said;  and  stooping  down,  he  kissed  it. 

At  this  action,  so  unlike  her  husband,  Mrs.  Pendyce 
blushed  like  a  girl.  Her  eyes  above  his  grey  and 
close- cropped  head  seemed  grateful  that  he  did  not 
reproach  her,  glad  of  that  caress. 

**I  have  some  news  to  tell  you,  Horace.  Helen 
Bellew  has  given  George  up!" 

The  Squire  dropped  her  hand. 

"And  quite  time  too, "  he  said.  "  I  dare  say  George 
has  refused  to  take  his  dismissal.  He  's  as  obstinate 
as  a  mule. " 

"I  found  him  in  a  dreadful  state." 

Mr.  Pendyce  asked  uneasily: 

"What?     What's  that?" 

"He  looked  so  desperate." 

"Desperate?"  said  the  Squire,  with  a  sort  of 
startled  anger. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  went  on: 

"It  was  dreadful  to  see  his  face.  I  was  with  him 
this  afternoon " 


Acute  Attack  of — **Pendycitis**     295 

The  Squire  said  suddenly; 

"He 'snot  ill,  is  he?" 
I      "No,  not  ill.     Oh,  Horace,  don  't  you  understand? 
^  I  was  afraid  he  might  do  something  rash.     He  was 
so — ^miserable." 

The  Squire  began  to  walk  up  and  down. 

"Is  he — is  he  safe  now?"  he  burst  out. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  sat  down  rather  suddenly  in  the 
nearest  chair. 

"Yes,"  she  said  with  difficulty,  "I — ^I  think  so.'* 

"Think!     What's  the  good  of  that?     What 

Are  you  feeling  faint,  Margery?" 

Mrs.  Pendyce,  who  had  closed  her  eyes,  said: 

"No,  dear,  it's  all  right." 

Mr.  Pendyce  came  close,  and  since  air  and  quiet 
were  essential  to  her  at  that  moment  he  bent  over, 
and  tried  by  every  means  in  his  power  to  rouse  her; 
and  she,  who  longed  to  be  let  alone,  sympathised  with 
him,  for  she  knew  that  it  was  natural  that  he  should 
do  this.  In  spite  of  his  efforts  the  feeling  of  faintness 
passed,  and,  taking  his  hand,  she  stroked  it  gratefully. 

"What  is  to  be  done  now,  Horace?" 

"Done!"  cried  the  Squire.  "Good  God!  how 
should  I  know?  Here  you  are  in  this  state,  all  be- 
cause of  that  d d  fellow  Bellew  and  his  d d 

wife!     What  you  want  is  some  dinner." 

So  saying,  he  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  half- 
leading,  half- carrying,  took  her  to  her  room. 

They  did  not  talk  much  at  dinner,  and  of  indifferent 
things,  of  Mrs.  Barter,  Peacock,  the  roses,  and  Bel- 
dame's hock.  Only  once  they  came  too  near  to  that 
which  instinct  told  them  to  avoid,  for  the  Squire 
said  suddenly: 

'  I  suppose  you  saw  that  woman?" 


296  The  Country  House 

And  Mrs.  Pendyce  murmured: 

"Yes." 

She  soon  went  to  her  room,  and  had  barely  got 
into  bed  when  he  appeared,  saying  as  though  ashamed: 

"I  'm  very  early!" 

She  lay  awake,  and  every  now  and  then  the  Squire 
would  ask  her,  "Are  you  asleep,  Margery?"  hoping 
that  she  might  have  dropped  off,  for  he  himself  could 
not  sleep.  And  she  knew  that  he  meant  to  be  nice 
to  her,  and  she  knew,  too,  that  as  he  lay  awake* 
turning  from  side  to  side,  he  was  thinking  like  her- 
self: "What's  to  be  done  next?"  And  that  his 
fancy,  too,  was  haunted  by  a  ghost,  high- shouldered 
with  little  burning  eyes,  red  hair,  and  white  freckled 
face.  For,  save  that  George  was  miserable,  nothing 
was  altered,  and  the  cloud  of  vengeance  still  hung 
over  Worsted  Skeynes.  Like  some  weary  lesson  she 
rehearsed  her  thoughts:  "Now  Horace  can  answer 
that  letter  of  Captain  Bellew's,  can  tell  him  that 
George  will  not — ^indeed,  cannot — ^see  her  again. 
He  must  answer  it.     But  will  he?" 

She  groped  after  the  secret  springs  of  her  husband's 
character,  turning  and  turning  and  trying  to  under- 
stand, that  she  might  know  the  best  way  of  ap-  \ 
proaching  him.  And  she  could  not  feel  sure,  for  \ 
behind  all  the  little  outside  points  of  his  nature,  that  ] 
she  thought  so  "funny,"  yet  could  comprehend,  : 
there  was  something  that  seemed  to  her  as  unknown,  I 
as  impenetrable  as  the  dark,  a  sort  of  thickness  of  i 
soul,  a  sort  of  hardness,  a  sort  of  barbaric — what?  I 
And  as  when  in  working  at  her  embroidery  the  point  | 
of  her  needle  would  often  come  to  a  stop  against  stiff  t 
buckram,  so  now  was  the  point  of  her  soul  brought  ^ 
to  a  stop  against  the  soul  of  her  husband.    Perhaps,  ^ 


w 


Acute  Attack  of — *'Pendycitis"     29/ 

she  thought,  Horace  feels  like  that  with  me.  She 
need  not  so  have  thought,  for  the  Squire  never  worked 
embroideries,  nor  did  the  needle  of  his  soul  make 
voyages  of  discovery. 

By  lunch-time  the  next  day  she  had  not  dared  to 
say  a  word.  "If  I  say  nothing,"  she  thought,  "he 
may  write  it  of  his  own  accord." 

Without  attracting  his  attention,  therefore,  she 
watched  every  movement  of  his  morning.  She  saw 
him  sitting  at  his  bureau  with  a  creased  and  crumpled 
letter,  and  knew  it  was  Bellew's;  and  she  hovered 
about,  coming  softly  in  and  out,  doing  little  things 
here  and  there  and  in  the  hall,  outside.  But  the  Squire 
gave  no  sign,  motionless  as  the  spaniel  John  couched 
along  the  ground  with  his  nose  between  his  paws. 

After  lunch  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"What  do  you  think  ought  to  be  done  now, 
Horace?" 

The  Squire  looked  at  her  fixedly. 

"If  you  imagine,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  I  '11  have 
anything  to  do  with  that  fellow  Bellew,  you  're  very 
much  mistaken." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  was  arranging  a  vase  of  flowers,  and 
her  hand  shook  so  that  some  of  the  water  was  spilled 
over  the  cloth.  She  took  out  her  handkerchief  and 
dabbed  it  up. 

"You  never  answered  his  letter,  dear,"  she  said. 

The  Squire  put  his  back  against  the  sideboard,  his 
stiff  figure,  with  lean  neck  and  angry  eyes,  whose 
pupils  were  mere  pin-points,  had  a  certain  dig- 
nity. 

"Nothing  shall  induce  me!"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
was  harsh  and  strong,  as  though  he  spoke  for  some- 
thing bigger  than  himself.     "I  Ve  thought  it  over 


2gS  The  Country  House 

all  the  morning,  and  I  'm  d d  if  I  do!     The  man 

is  a  ruffian.     I  won't  knuckle  under  to  him!** 

Mrs.  Pendyce  clasped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  Horace,"  she  said;  ''but  for  the  sake  of  us  all! 
Only  just  give  him  that  assurance.  '* 

"And  let  him  crow  over  me!"  cried  the  Squire. 
"By  Jove,  no!" 

"  But,  Horace,  I  thought  that  was  what  you  wanted 
George  to  do.  You  wrote  to  him  and  asked  him  to 
promise." 

The  Squire  answered: 

"You  know  nothing  about  it,  Margery;  you  know 
nothing  about  me.  D'  you  think  I  'm  going  to  tell 
him  that  his  wife  has  thrown  my  son  over — ^let  him 
keep  me  gasping  like  a  fish  all  this  time,  and  then  get 
the  best  of  it  in  the  end.  Not  if  I  have  to  leave  the 
county — not  if  I " 

But,  as  though  he  had  imagined  the  most  bitter 
fate  of  all,  he  stopped. 

Mrs.  Pendyce,  putting  her  hands  on  the  lappels  of 
his  coat,  stood  with  her  head  bent.  The  colour  had 
flushed  into  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  were  bright  with 
tears.  And  there  came  from  her  in  her  emotion  a 
warmth  and  fragrance,  a  charm,  as  though  she  were 
again  young,  like  the  portrait  under  which  they  stood. 

"Not  if  /  ask  you,  Horace?" 

The  Squire's  face  was  suffused  with  dusky  colour;  he 
clenched  his  hands  and  seemed  to  sway  and  hesitate. 

"No,  Margery,"  he  said  hoarsely;  "it's — it's — I 
can't!" 

And,  breaking  away  from  her,  he  left  the  room. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  after  him;  her  fingers,  from 
which  he  had  torn  his  coat,  began  twining  the  one 
with  the  other. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BELLEW    BOWS   TO   A   LADY 

THERE  was  silence  at  the  Firs,  and  in  that  silent 
house  where  only  five  rooms  were  used,  an 
old  manservant  sat  in  his  pantry  on  a  wooden  chair, 
reading  from  an  article  out  of  County  Life.  There 
was  no  one  to  disturb  him,  for  the  master  was  asleep, 
and  the  housekeeper  had  not  yet  come  to  cook  the 
dinner.  He  read  slowly,  through  spectacles,  engraving 
the  words  for  ever  on  the  tablets  of  his  mind.  He  read 
about  the  construction  and  habits  of  the  owl:  "In  the 
tawny,  or  brown,  owl,  there  is  a  manubrial  process; 
the  furcula,  far  from  being  joined  to  the  keel  of  the 
sternum,  consists  of  two  stylets,  which  do  not  even 
meet;  while  the  posterior  margin  of  the  sternum 
presents  two  pairs  of  projections,  with  corresponding 
fissures  between."  The  old  manservant  paused, 
resting  his  blinking  eyes  on  the  pale  sunlight  through 
the  bars  of  his  narrow  window,  so  that  a  little  bird 
on  the  window-sill  looked  at  him  and  instantly  flew 
away. 

The  old  manservant  read  on  again:  "The  pterylo- 
logical  characters  of  Photodilus  seem  not  to  have  been 
investigated,  but  it  has  been  found  to  want  the  tarsal 
loop,  as  well  as  the  manubrial  process,  while  its 
clavicles  are  not  joined  in  a  furcula,  nor  do  they  meet 
the  keel,  and  the  posterior  margin  of  the  sternum 
has  processes  and  fissures  like  the  tawny  section." 
Again  he  paused,  and  his  gaze  was  satisfied  and  bland. 

299 


300  The  Country  House 

Up  in  the  little  smoking-room,  in  a  leather  chair, 
his  master  sat  asleep.  In  front  of  him  were  stretched 
his  legs  in  dusty  riding-boots.  His  lips  were  closed, 
but  through  a  little  hole  at  one  corner  came  a  tiny- 
puffing  sound.  On  the  floor  by  his  side  was  an 
empty  glass,  between  his  feet  a  Spanish  bulldog.  On 
a  shelf  above  his  head  reposed  some  frayed  and  yellow 
novels  with  sporting  titles,  written  by  persons  in 
their  inattentive  moments.  Over  the  chimneypiece 
presided  the  portrait  of  Mr.  Jorrocks  persuading  his 
horse  to  cross  a  stream. 

And  the  face  of  Jaspar  Bellew  asleep  was  the  face  of 
a  man  who  has  ridden  far,  to  get  away  from  himself, 
and  to-morrow  will  have  to  ride  far  again.  His 
sandy  eyebrows  twitched  with  his  dreams  against 
the  dead- white,  freckled  skin  above  high  cheekbones, 
and  two  hard  ridges  were  fixed  between  his  brows; 
now  and  then  over  the  sleeping  face  came  the  look 
of  one  riding  at  a  gate. 

In  the  stables  behind  the  house,  she  who  had 
carried  him  on  his  ride,  having  rummaged  out  her 
last  grains  of  corn,  lifted  her  nose  and  poked  it  through 
the  bars  of  her  loose  box  to  see  what  he  was  doing  who 
had  not  carried  her  master  that  sweltering  afternoon, 
and  seeing  that  he  was  awake,  she  snorted  lightly, 
for  there  was  thunder  in  the  air.  All  else  in  the 
stables  was  deadly  quiet ;  the  shrubberies  around 
were  still;  and  in  the  hushed  house  the  master  slept. 

But  on  the  edge  of  his  wooden  chair  in  the  silence 
of  his  pantry,  the  old  manservant  read:  "This  bird 
is  a  voracious  feeder,"  and  he  paused,  blinking  his 
eyes  and  nervously  puckering  his  lips,  for  he  had 
partially  understood.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Pendyce  was  crossing  the  fields.     She  had  on 


Bellew  Bows  to  a  Lady  30^ 

her  prettiest  frock,  of  smoky-grey  crepe,  and  she 
looked  a  little  anxiously  at  the  sky.  Gathered  in 
the  west,  a  coming  storm  was  chasing  the  whitened 
sunlight.  Against  its  purple  the  trees  stood  blackish- 
green.  Everything  was  very  still,  not  even  the 
poplars  stirred,  yet  the  purple  grew  with  sinister, 
unmoving  speed.  Mrs.  Pendyce  hurried,  grasping 
her  skirts  in  both  her  hands,  and  she  noticed  that 
the  cattle  were  all  grouped  under  the  hedge. 

'*  What  dreadful-looking  clouds ! "  she  thought.  "  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  get  to  the  Firs  before  it  comes?" 
But  though  her  frock  made  her  hasten,  her  heart 
made  her  stand  still,  it  fluttered  so,  and  was  so  full. 
Suppose  he  were  not  sober!  She  remembered  those 
little  burning  eyes,  that  had  frightened  her  so  the 
night  he  dined  at  Worsted  Skeynes  and  fell  out  of  his 
dog-cart  afterwards.  A  kind  of  legendary  malevo- 
lence clung  about  his  image. 

"Suppose  he  is  horrid  to  me!"  she  thought. 

She  could  not  go  back  now;  but  she  wished — how 
she  wished ! — that  it  were  over.  A  heat  drop  splashed 
her  glove.  She  crossed  the  lane  and  opened  the 
Firs  gate.  Throwing  frightened  glances  at  the  sky, 
she  hastened  down  the  drive.  The  purple  was 
couched  like  a  pall  on  the  tree-tops,  and  these  had 
begun  to  sway  and  moan  as  though  struggling  and 
weeping  at  their  fate.  Some  splashes  of  warm  rain 
were  falling.  A  streak  of  lightning  tore  the  firma- 
ment. Mrs.  Pendyce  rushed  into  the  porch  covering 
her  ears  with  her  hands. 

"How  long  will  it  last?"  she  thought.  "I  'm  so 
frightened!"  .  .   . 

A  very  old  manservant,  whose  face  was  all  puckers, 
opened  the  door  suddenly  to  peer  out  at  the  storm, 


302  The  Country  House 

but  seeing  Mrs.  Pendyce,  he  peered  at  her  instead. 

"Is  Captain  Bellew  at  home?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  The  Captain  's  in  the  study.  We 
don't  use  the  drawing-room  now.  Nasty  storm 
coming  on,  ma  'am — nasty  storm.  Will  you  please 
to  sit  down  a  minute,  while  I  let  the  Captain  know?" 

The  hall  was  low  and  dark;  the  whole  house  was 
low  and  dark,  and  smelled  a  little  of  wood-rot.  Mrs. 
Pendyce  did  not  sit  down,  but  stood  under  an  ar- 
rangement of  three  foxes'  heads,  supporting  two 
hunting-crops,  with  their  lashes  hanging  down.  And 
the  heads  of  those  animals  suggested  to  her  the 
thought:  " Poor  man!     He  must  be  very  lonely  here." 

She  started.  Something  was  rubbing  against  her 
knees :  it  was  only  an  enormous  bulldog.  She  stooped 
down  to  pat  it,  and  having  once  begun,  found  it 
impossible  to  leave  off,  for  when  she  took  her  hand 
away  the  creature  pressed  against  her,  and  she  was 
afraid  for  her  frock. 

"Poor  old  boy — poor  old  boy!"  she  kept  on  mur- 
muring.    "Did  he  want  a  little  attention?" 

A  voice  behind  her  said : 

"Get  out,  Sam!  Sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting. 
Won't  you  come  in  here?" 

Mrs.  Pendyce,  blushing  and  turning  pale  by  turns, 
passed  into  a  low,  small,  panelled  room,  smelling  of 
cigars  and  spirits.  Through  the  window,  which  was 
cut  up  into  little  panes,  she  could  see  the  rain  driving 
past,  the  shrubs  bent,  and  dripping  from  the  down- 
pour. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?'* 

Mrs.  Pendyce  sat  down.  She  had  clasped  her 
hands  together;  she  now  raised  her  eyes  and  looked 
timidly  at  her  host. 


Bellew  Bows  to  a  Lady  303 

She  saw  a  thin,  high-shouldered  figure,  with  bowed 
legs  a  little  apart,  rumpled  sandy  hair,  a  pale,  freckled 
face,  and  little  dark  blinking  eyes. 

"Sorry  the  room  's  in  such  a  mess.  Don't  often 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  lady.  I  was  asleep; 
generally  am  at  this  time  of  year!" 

The  bristly  red  moustache  was  contorted  as  though 
his  lips  were  smiling. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  murmured  vaguely. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  nothing  of  this  was  real,  but 
all  some  horrid  dream.  A  clap  of  thunder  made  her 
cover  her  ears. 

Bellew  walked  to  the  window,  glanced  at  the  sky, 
and  came  back  to  the  hearth.  His  little  burning  eyes 
seemed  to  look  her  through  and  through.  "If  I 
don't  speak  at  once,"  she  thought,  "I  never  shall 
speak  at  all." 

"I  've  come, "  she  began,  and  with  those  words  she 
lost  her  fright ;  her  voice,  that  had  been  so  uncertain 
hitherto,  regained  its  trick  of  speech;  her  eyes,  all 
pupil,  stared  dark  and  gentle  at  this  man  who  had 
them  all  in  his  power — "I  've  come  to  tell  you  some- 
thmg.  Captain  Bellew!" 

The  *igure  by  the  hearth  bowed,  and  her  fright, 
like  some  evil  bird,  came  fluttering  down  on  her 
again.  It  was  dreadful,  it  was  barbarous  that  she, 
that  any  one,  should  have  to  speak  of  such  things;  it 
was  barbarous  that  men  and  women  should  so  mis- 
understand each  other,  and  have  so  little  sympathy 
and  consideration;  it  was  barbarous  that  she,  Margery 
Pendyce,  should  have  to  talk  on  this  subject  that  must 
give  them  both  such  pain.  It  was  all  so  mean  and 
gross  and  common!  She  took  out  her  handkerchief 
and  passed  it  over  her  lip§. 


304  The  Country  House 

"Please  forgive  me  for  speaking.  Your  wife  has 
given  my  son  up,  Captain  Bellew!" 

Bellew  did  not  move. 

"She  does  not  love  him;  she  told  me  so  herself! 
He  will  never  see  her  again!" 

How  hateful,  how  horrible,  how  odious! 

And  still  Bellew  did  not  speak,  but  stood  devouring 
her  with  his  little  eyes;  and  how  long  this  went  on  she 
could  not  tell. 

He  turned  his  back  suddenly,  and  leaned  against 
the  mantelpiece. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  passed  her  hand  over  her  biow  to 
get  rid  of  a  feeling  of  unreality. 

"That  is  all,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  sounded  to  herself  unlike  her  own. 

"If  that  is  really  all,"  she  thought,  "I  suppose  I 
must  get  up  and  go!"  And  it  flashed  through  her 
mind:  "My  poor  dress  will  be  ruined!" 

Bellew  turned  round. 

"Will  you  have  some  tea?" 

Mrs.  Pendyce  smiled  a  pale  little  smile. 

"No,  thank  you;  I  don't  think  I  could  drink  any 
tea." 

"I  wrote  a  letter  to  your  husband." 

"Yes." 

"  He  did  n't  answer  it. " 

"No." 

Mrs.  Pendyce  saw  him  staring  at  her,  and  a  de- 
sperate struggle  began  within  her.     Shotdd  she  not 

ask  him  to  keep  his  promise,  now  that  George? 

Was  not  that  what  she  had  come  for?  Ought  she 
not — ought  she  not  for  all  their  sakes? 

Bellew  went  up  to  the  table,  poured  out  some 
whiskey,  and  drank  it  oflL 


Bellew  Bows  to  a  Lady  305 

"You  don't  ask  me  to  stop  the  proceedings!"  he 
said. 

Mrs.  Pendyce's  lips  were  parted,  but  nothing  came 
through  those  parted  lips.  Her  eyes,  black  as  sloes 
in  her  white  face,  never  moved  from  his;  she  made 
no  sound. 

Bellew  dashed  his  hand  across  his  brow. 

"Well,  I  will!"  he  said,  "for  your  sake. 
There's  my  hand  on  it.  You  're  the  only  lady  I 
know!" 

He  gripped  her  gloved  fingers,  brushed  past  her, 
and  she  saw  that  she  was  alone. 

She  found  her  own  way  out,  with  the  tears  running 
down  her  face.  Very  gently  she  shut  the  hall 
door. 

"My  poor  dress!"  she  thought.  "I  wonder  if  I 
might  stand  here  a  little?  The  rain  looks  nearly 
over!" 

The  purple  cloud  had  passed,  and  sunk  behind  the 
house,  and  a  bright  white  sky  was  pouring  down  a 
sparkling  rain;  a  patch  of  deep  blue  showed  behind 
the  fir-trees  in  the  drive.  The  thrushes  were  out 
already  after  worms.  A  squirrel  scampering  along 
a  branch  stopped  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Pendyce,  and 
Mrs.  Pendyce  looked  absently  at  the  squirrel  from 
behind  the  little  handkerchief  with  which  she  was 
drying  her  eyes. 

"That  poor  man!"  she  thought — "poor  solitary 
creature!    There's  the  sun!" 

And  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  the  first  time  the 
sun  had  shone  all  this  fine  hot  year.  Gathering  her 
dress  in  both  hands,  she  stepped  into  the  drive,  and 
soon  was  back  again  in  the  fields. 

Every  green  thing  glittered,  and  the  air  was  so 


3o6  The  Country  House 

rain- sweet  that  all  the  summer  scents  were  gonCj 
before  the  crystal  scent  of  nothing.  Mrs.  Pendyce's 
shoes  were  soon  wet  through. 

"How  happy  I  am!"  she  thought — "how  glad 
and  happy  I  am!" 

And  the  feeling,  which  was  not  as  definite  as  this, 
possessed  her  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  feelings 
in  the  rain-soaked  fields. 

The  cloud  that  had  hung  over  Worsted  Skeynes  so 
long  had  spent  itself  and  gone.  Every  sound  seemed 
to  be  music,  every  moving  thing  danced.  She  longedT 
to  get  to  her  early  roses,  and  see  how  the  rain  had 
treated  them.  She  had  a  stile  to  cross,  and  when  she 
was  safely  over  she  paused  a  minute  to  gather  her 
skirts  more  firmly.  It  was  a  home-field  she  was  in 
now,  and  right  before  her  lay  the  country  house. 
Long  and  low  and  white  it  stood  in  the  glamourous 
evening  haze,  with  two  bright  panes,  where  the  sun- 
light fell,  watching,  like  eyes,  the  confines  of  its 
acres;  and  behind  it,  to  the  left,  broad,  square,  and 
grey  among  its  elms,  the  village  church.  Around, 
above,  beyond,  was  peace — ^the  sleepy,  misty  peace 
of  the  English  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  walked  towards  her  garden.  When 
she  was  near  it,  away  to  the  right,  she  saw  the  Squire 
and  Mr.  Barter.  They  were  standing  together  looking 
at  a  tree,  and — symbol  of  a  subservient  under- world — • 
the  spaniel  John  was  seated  on  his  tail,  and  he,  too, 
was  looking  at  the  tree.  The  faces  of  the  Rector  and 
Mr.  Pendyce  were  turned  up  at  the  same  angle,  and 
different  as  those  faces  and  figures  were  in  their 
eternal  rivalry  of  type,  a  sort  of  essential  likeness 
struck  her  with  a  feeling  of  surprise.  It  was  as 
though  a  single  spirit  seeking  for  a  body  had  met  with 


Bellew  Bows  to  a  Lady  307 

these  two  shapes,  and  becoming  confused,  decided 
to  inhabit  both. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  did  not  wave  to  them,  but  passed 
quickly,  between  the  yew-trees,  through  the  wicket- 
gate. 

In  her  garden  bright  drops  were  falling  one  by 
one  from  every  rose-leaf,  and  in  the  petals  of  each 
rose  were  jewels  of  water.  A  little  down  the  path 
a  weed  caught  her  eye ;  she  looked  closer,  and  saw  that 
there  were  several. 

**0h,"  she  thought,  "how  dreadfully  they've  let 
the  weeds I  must  really  speak  to  Jackman!" 

A  rose-tree  that  she  herself  had  planted  rustled 
close  by,  letting  fall  a  shower  of  drops. 

Mrs.  Pendyce  bent  down,  and  took  a  white  rose 
in  her  fingers.  With  her  smiling  lips  she  kissed  its 
face. 

THB  END 


i^ 


,.«.        '*°*''  USE 
CIRCUMTION  D6PARTMW, 
MAIN  LIBRARY 


^??l£!UVOV  2  9  1973 


AUG   71986 


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General  Library 


